


Of Risk and Regret

by orionstarlight



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Developing Relationship, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Ice Skating, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28263756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionstarlight/pseuds/orionstarlight
Summary: "I'm not going to ever skate professionally again," Rin says calmly. "I got used to the idea a long time ago."His thumb runs across cracked lips. "Nah, ya didn't. Ya just stopped fighting.”The rink has been Suna's home for as long as he can remember, and it's not easy to give it all up when his dreams are pulled out from under him. One day, Osamu opens up an onigiri restaurant a few streets away from where Suna continues to train. What can one visit change?
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 35
Kudos: 149
Collections: SunaOsa





	Of Risk and Regret

**Author's Note:**

> I can't skate to save my life, but I could not get this idea out of my head, so please enjoy figure skater Rin and restaurateur Osamu, who have become my comfort ship before I even realised it was happening. 
> 
> I've done as much research as I can, I've listened to classical music for days on end, I've watched interviews and read articles and watched TV shows, but I cannot promise perfection. 
> 
> I can promise a fic that will -- hopefully -- leave you breathless and on the edge of your seat. It's one of my longest ones that I've actually completed and I would love to here your thoughts upon it in the comments.
> 
> The playlist (though not extensive) I listened to before I got stuck on TS's Evermore is [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/53ccZUHr5uvwrCMi7G5mLy?si=EEHXDzCsSga-Cq0yc1SCYA)

* * *

He glides across the rink as the sun wakes up behind the windows, shining down at the rough patterns he’s etched in already, ruining the perfectly glazed pool of ice. A little extra money out of his pocket and he gets two hours every morning just to _breathe_. 

_One foot behind the other, listen to the ticks in the music. Move your hips without your shoulders, mind your twisting arms in front of you. Don’t think before you jump, just sprout wings and fly._

The violin version of _On Wings of Song_ pulls his mind in and out of reality, the exchange of air in his lungs increasing. The pitch increases and decreases, much like his breathing, and though he isn’t cold, he knows there are goosebumps on his arms.

He picks up some speed, backwards clockwise crossovers coming naturally to him, and then he takes a step forward and crosses, moving seamlessly into a left forward outside three turn with a toe tap. Now that he’s backwards, his right foot extends behind him and into the ice, taking off by pushing up using both legs and ultimately the toe of his right foot.

His left foot crosses over his right as he jumps, rotating an exact three hundred and sixty degrees and landing perfectly on his right foot, extending his left leg behind him.

The key shifts in the song are ingrained into his memory, filling out the silence of the rink, and he finds himself moving to a programme he thought he’d lost to the past.

He knows the ice, and the ice knows him. It moves him like waves of the ocean push shells to land, a spread eagle into a triple axel propelling him forward, pushing him to a quadruple toe loop into a triple toe loop and he’s landing, he’s landing— 

_You’re not landing on your foot_. 

He looks down at his legs, alarmed, but finds that they’re only tangled now, and he breathes a sigh of relief and he gets up, fingers tightly holding onto his calf until he’s upright.

Pushing the hair out of his eyes, he glances up at the clock, and then towards the stands where he can see his figure placing his jacket down, ready to start practise an hour before he’s due. Suna smiles slightly, a split-second only, Sakusa’s predictability a welcome thing.

His skates find new grooves to make as he continues, toning down the difficulty of his movements, focusing rather on the journey from one end to the next, eyes just barely open as Tchaikovsky starts in his earphones, guiding him. He’s alone, no audience, just his arms moving like he’s conducting an orchestra.

He’s the _prima_ , centre stage, performing for no one. Every push, every slide, every turn is calculated before he makes it, but thought about only once he’s off the ice. There’s no time to doubt yourself when you have to go forward and looking back will cost him something more than time.

His eyes spring open, sharp emeralds of dedication, watching as Sakusa takes his own place on the ice, mask left behind on the seats. He’s younger than Suna by two months, started skating later in life too, but he’s always been precise when practising, though he has yet to see him in competition. He himself has been practising here for years, but Sakusa only arrived a few months ago.

He’s careful now, not wanting to get in his way, knowing the younger has yet to completely master landing a quadruple Salchow. It’s why he lets him train with him early in the morning, before anyone else arrives. That and the fee he has to pay for early access lowers by a small amount.

Their mornings are spent in silence, a nod of acknowledgement and an apology should one of them get too close from time to time are their limited interactions. They’re here to master techniques, not exchange petty remarks on one another’s abilities.

Tchaikovsky dies out and is replaced by Vivaldi, _Winter_ the season that plays. He has them separated, so he never knows which one to expect. It helps keep him on his toes when he begins a new sequence of steps.

Akaashi comes along half an hour after Sakusa does, one and half after Suna, but never gets on the ice until it’s time. He stays in the stands, ready, analytical eyes mapping out possible positions.

More doors start swinging open, more friends and coaches start filling the area, waiting for their students, but he doesn’t deter, just flows with the waves, halfway through the music he has queued, adding spins and small jumps where he knows he’ll finish them. _Summer_ plays its few final notes, and he slices to a stop, one arm bent at the elbow, the other extended, both pointing downwards, where his eyesight lands.

He feels the heat in his neck and shoulders as he straightens himself, removing the earphones and placing them in a previously zipped pocket. He stretches his arms, legs, and then skates over to the gate to leave and get to the locker room.

Only a few people at the rink are never puzzled by his decision to leave at seven, when everyone starts flooding in, the day having officially begun, while the rest stare, perplexed, wondering what he’s doing leaving when he should be preparing for a long few hours on the ice.

Kenma is still pretending to tie his laces in the locker room when he arrives, a Switch in his hands, oblivious to the fact that his coach is waiting for him, but then that’s normal. He’s never been one for exercise.

“Nekomata’s gonna physically drag you out of here one of these days. I’m surprised he hasn’t died of old age, waiting for you.” It’s easier to initiate a conversation with him than Sakusa, because he’ll always bite, a sharp tongue on him behind uninterested features.

“Never bothered him before.” It most definitely did, except now it’s more obvious. He sits down on the other side of the bench, their backs to each other.

He stares down at his hands, red from his earlier fall, angry that he let himself be swept away by emotions. He takes a glance at the back of Kenma’s head and says, “That was before Sakusa. Before you gained more competition.”

“Sakusa isn’t competition,” he replies without missing a beat. “He might have more stamina, but he will never move like I do. He prefers to do as much as he can as perfectly as he can but will forget it’s not all about technique.”

“Spoken like a true ballerina,” snickers Suna, to which Kenma retaliates with a shove of his back into his.

He takes off his skates and puts them in his bag, swapping his thin fleece out for a turtleneck and hoodie, something to keep him warm in the bitter February air. He sticks his arms into his coat and slings the bag over his shoulder, ready to head home.

“Which jump?”

When he turns around, Kenma’s stretching, finally ready to bear hours under Nekomata’s intense tutelage. His hair is tied back, dark circles under his eyes, but his form is as lean and taut as ever.

“Quadruple into a triple toe loop.” He blinks a little, like it wasn’t the answer he was expecting.

“I would’ve guessed the three-jump combo. But then I guess something like that only ever really trips up the beginners.” _The people destined to fail_ , is what he leaves unsaid, but only because they’ve already heard it so many times.

He’s always impressed by how easily Kenma had been able to pick him apart, and he’s used to getting questions about things other people wouldn’t dare to bring up. Not now, at least. Not after. 

“Piss Sakusa off for me, would you? I can’t, if I still want an hour to myself every morning,” he smiles, making his way out the door. 

The February air is less bitter than he expected, but he still huddles desperately into his layers. The cold reaches his legs far too quickly and he grumbles when the ache makes him trip a little, but he just starts the music again and falls into a light jog, careful not to slip on the remaining winter ice.

Skating doesn’t come free when you have no sponsors, and he’s lucky enough to have landed a job that lets him work from the comfort of his own home. It’s not much, but it pays well, and the hours aren’t too bad either.

It’s rare for a skater to go to college, but a contingency plan is always in place, and his was a six-month-long business course with the promise of a degree so he’d always have something to fall back on. That, paired with the languages he’d learnt from international competitions, had him working as a translator for minor companies.

He ignores the strain of the jog after two hours of practise, his legs begging him to stop, carries on down familiar streets and pavements he’s jogged for years now, until he comes to a blocked road, not even Metallica drowning out the sound of drilling.

He’s used to changes in routine, familiar, even. He turns and takes a left instead of going straight, taking in the new surroundings. More small businesses, a few pawn shops that should have been shut long ago, appliance stores and grocers, and just before he turns right, a shiny sign catches his eye.

What he’s sure once was a small karaoke bar is now a clean, meticulous restaurant, still closed, but that doesn’t stop him from squinting through the glass, curious as to why he’s not heard of a new restaurant opening in town yet. He’s not that elusive of others, is he?

He takes a few steps back, looking for a name. _Onigiri Miya_. It seems familiar, although he has no idea why.

Out of nowhere he feels a hand on his shoulder, and he jumps, the music in his ears having prevented him from realising there’s a guy next to him, talking. He takes the earphones out, pausing the current song, and taking in the figure.

Soft brown hair, brushed through, grey eyes soft and metallic, and a smile broader than life grins at him. “Sorry about scarin’ ya. Didn’t realise ya were listenin’ to somethin’.”

“Sorry, were you saying something?”

“Just that I wasn’t expectin’ customers two hours ‘fore we open.” Suna looks away from the man and back at the restaurant.

“So, this place is yours? It looks nice.”

“My pride and joy. Only opened her a few weeks ago, but she’s doing well for ‘erself. Yer more than welcome to come inside once we’re up and runnin’.” And the second smile that flashes his way has some of the cogs in his brain grinding to a halt before and forcing him to say one thing only.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” It’s hard to pinpoint the last time he actually went out to eat.

“’m Osamu, by the way,” says the owner, holding out a hand. “Miya’s the family name, but I prefer my first.”

Their hands meet. “Suna Rintarō.” His fingers feel thin in Osamu’s firm grip.

“Come by soon, Sunarin,” he says, and then he’s unlocking the door, heading inside, leaving him rather flustered at the fact he’s already got a nickname. He shakes it off, continues jogging home. He needs a shower, and fast.

He can’t seem to remember the last time he had onigiri, sticking usually to something quick for breakfast, and somewhat healthy takeout for his other meals. Rarely does he cook, not finding the need for it. 

Stopping a few buildings down, he looks at the restaurant again, the lights finally on, and he looks at the man putting on an apron, coat gone to reveal the plainest of grey t-shirts, and finds himself craving a food he hasn’t so much as thought about for months.

* * *

The splash of water onto his face is a welcome wake up call. His shirt is stuck to his back with sweat and his hair is sticking up at odd ends, the eyes in the mirror wide and panicked. Whoever is staring back at him, is not Suna Rintarō.

He claws off the shirt and hangs his head in the sink, turning off the water. _You’re not landing on your foot_. His fingers turn as white as the porcelain, unable to silence Mendelssohn’s notes in his head.

_A quadruple toe loop into a triple toe loop, one of the easier combinations you could hope for in your sequence, and you’ve landed it in damn near every practise, so why, why are you not skating on? Why is your skate moving on something that isn’t ice?_

He doesn’t look at his reflection after wiping the water from his face, just opens the window to let some fresh air into the damp room. Once he’s a little more cool, he takes a new fleece from the laundry basket and pulls it over, grabbing a pair of warmer socks too.

In reality, they close at nine-thirty. For Suna, they close at ten.

He takes his bike in the evening, feeling safer than if he were to jog, and he lets the wind mess up his hair a little as he rides. He hears every sound the town has to offer him tonight, every car horn, every angry neighbour, every shout of the drunk. Nothing about his journey is new, except maybe the change in course he now has to take.

He stops opposite the restaurant, the lights still on, a few customers sitting around and enjoying their food. It’s near half-past eight, so he’s not surprised they’re still open, but he is surprised to still see the owner, serving an older couple, same grey t-shirt from this morning hugging his biceps.

He wonders how someone in catering even gets muscles like that. When would he even have the time? Surely managing a restaurant takes up nearly your whole life, especially one that’s just opened.

Green eyes meet grey ones through the windowpane and his heart can’t help hammering when he receives a small wave. If he wasn’t so antsy to get back to the rink, he’d probably pop in, have a look at what’s on offer. Instead, he doesn’t return the wave, just continues on the rest of the way.

He hadn’t expected to be recognised this late at night, and he was hoping he’d have a little more time to stare, but clearly, he’d left a lasting impression without meaning to. 

Taking in the cars parked in front, he doesn’t miss the red Nissan near the front, the registration number still present in his mind. If he tries hard enough, he’s able to recall the feeling of the leather seats underneath him. He walks past it with his chin raised, hair bouncing a little.

After he’s done changing, his fingers make fast work of his laces, and he takes a good, strong look at them, at how red and sore they are, and for a moment he contemplates putting on the gloves he knows he has in his bag. He decides against, zipping up his fleece and heading out, one hour until his closing time.

Kenma’s cheeks are flushed furiously, exerted; Akaashi is with his coach by the border, stretching his legs as he listens; and what he assumes is Sakusa’s quadruple Salchow accidentally turns into a triple. There are a couple others here and there, but he’s not interested in them, not even when they blatantly stare in his direction.

 _Shostakovich Waltz, No. 2_ , a little more jovial than he usually goes for, but the chords settle easily in his lungs as they worm through his ears. Twenty-five seconds in, he picks up speed, and the triple axel is executed perfectly on the key shift of the thirtieth second. Hands behind his back, he moves, turns.

A quadruple Salchow as he glides past Sakusa, the smallest of taunts, simply begging him to watch. His legs crisscross, weaving in and out of the people he shares the ice with, but he doesn’t mind. When they all start to leave, that’ll be when he can truly imagine what it’s like to have power again.

The song is a short one, barely two minutes long, but it’s a good start to practise. He doesn’t stop for a moment though, letting Mozart take over his limbs for the time being. When his hands move, his fingers splay, knowing they’re not mechanically fixed to one position, and he makes sure that every muscle he has moves when he tells it to.

He jumps up like an axel and then kicks his take-off leg backwards, landing in the position he needs to complete a back-sit spin. A death drop is not easy, but he manages it, the lowest of grunts leaving him.

People are packing up when he looks up, and even Sakusa is done for the night. He simply hums, happy that he’ll be alone soon. Him staying an extra half hour after everyone is not a recent development, and the regulars know better than to ask why he isn’t clearing off.

“Don’t tell me you were trying to bring down Sakusa’s confidence with that Salchow,” says Kenma, falling into skate beside him. 

“Why would I ever do that?” He smiles at Suna, impressed with just how innocent he really sounds. “Are you streaming or sleeping tonight?”

“Funny question.” And then he’s turning on his heel, waving goodbye. He’ll fall asleep to him winning whatever game he’s playing, he thinks to himself, before the music changes again and he nearly stumbles over his own two feet.

 _On Wings of Song_. Does he dare attempt it?

He’s moving to the step sequence he helped choreograph before he can stop himself, his mind catching up halfway through a flying sit spin. He doesn’t have to continue, he doesn’t want to, but he’s already moving on, arms wrapping and unwrapping around his torso.

_Approach from the left forward outside edge of your skate. Kick through with your free leg, three and a half revolutions, then land on the right back outside edge of your skate._

With the triple axel complete, he lowers his body to the ground as he spins, fingers delicately tracing worn in designs in the ice from the day. Everyone always presumed that with his height, he’d topple over and land face first, but with a slender frame, he’s quick to catch himself before that can happen.

The violin strings flutter and the quadruple toe loop is happening and he’s already moving into the triple without registering it, and yet, his legs don’t last him. _You’re not landing on your foot_. He gives up halfway through, falling roughly onto his knees, body moving without his mind, sliding across the barren expanse.

_The lights are shining at you, only you. Everyone can see you, falling, not landing, not getting up and carrying on. Why can’t you? Did you out of nowhere forget how to use your legs, Suna Rintarō? Everyone can see that you’re not landing on your foot._

He’s known for being emotionless, deadpan, but when he brings his knuckles down onto the ice, he is anything but. A triple toe loop isn’t even difficult for him, but when it’s after a quadruple, when there’s that melody playing in his head even though he’s not wearing earphones, he never lands anymore.

The song ends and he nearly forgets he has to get up. His legs are shaky, but he manages, and though his stamina has been beaten down, he pushes himself to finish off as many songs as he can tonight.

He does fine, for the most part. His spins and flips aren’t too bad, perhaps a little rusty, but he’s angry that at every loop he attempts, he pops his jump, even if it’s not in a combination. His body had given out on him the moment his fists connected with the floor.

His palms look like they’ve been holding onto the sun they’re so red, and he knows it’ll be a bitch to press an ice pack against later. That’s on him, for dancing to a routine he knows damn well he shouldn’t be touching. Not when he’s not skating professionally for the foreseeable future.

Despite the deduction of points he’d receive if he were doing his routine, he lays down on the ice, one leg propped up on the heel of his skate, and stares up at the awful, bright lights on the ceiling, letting himself be blinded. 

His coach has moved onto a new student, and yet he’s still coming back here, a space he doesn’t really know how to command all that well anymore. He laughs; can’t help it, since it’s rather ironic. People always did say he had a tendency to give up the closer to the top he got.

A knocking on the plastic barriers has his head swinging up, looking towards the sound, only to find a smirking Akaashi waiting. He tilts his head and then looks at the brown bag he’s holding in his hand, and he already knows he’s been roped into eating something healthy for dinner for once.

It’s not like it hasn’t happened before, but usually, he refuses, Akaashi’s boyfriend a lot to put up with after an early morning and late training, but if he’s showing up with a bag, it means the boyfriend is at an away game and he needs a friend to drink a beer with.

He gets up, skates over, squints at the hidden food. “I’m not looking to poison you. Just making sure you’re resting and eating more than microwavable meals.”

Akaashi keeps him focused, brings him back down to earth when he needs it. It’s like his fingers can reach into his brain and untangle all his overlapping neurons like a pair of headphones he’s just taken out of his pocket.

“No lecture on caffeine consumption today?” he asks, stepping over into the stands. 

“I’m against hypocrisy,” he shrugs.

Suna follows him to the locker room, glancing back at the rink for a moment and the lights hanging above it. They’re shaped somewhat like onigiri, he decides.

* * *

His laptop is making fun of him, he’s sure of it. It’s not his fault he doesn’t know as many Russian words as he thought he did and now needs to take a course in the language, even if he isn’t sure _when_ he’s supposed to do that or _how_ he’s going to pay for it. Even if he turns down this task, there’ll be another one another time, and he can’t just keep turning them down.

His chin rests on the palm of his hand as he turns to his phone, scrolling through Twitter. He’ll finish the document later, maybe go to the library and find something to help him translate the words he doesn’t know. He figures the course can come at a later date.

His stomach rumbles and he looks down at it, asking it to shut up, but when he looks at the time, he figures that his stomach might have a point. His fridge, however, is not on his side, and he’s pretty sure that if inanimate objects could talk, it’d tell him to go fuck himself. He deserves it, what with all the groceries he never buys.

Pulling on his coat, he takes his wallet — which he’s pretty sure is empty — and heads outside, into a warm afternoon that makes him squint his eyes. No idea what direction he’s heading in, he just starts walking, letting his feet do the guiding.

He’s never really been interested in the town he lives in. Everything is rather the same, with not much changing, and it doesn’t feel like the place for him sometimes. He thrives on having to adjust when his surroundings change, and yet he’s lived in stability for so long, he can’t help asking himself if that’s still true.

He purposefully steps on the cracks as he walks, thinking about how many times his mother told him not to. He started doing it out of spite, after that. He’s done a lot of things out of spite, if he thinks about it.

A bell above a door is what he hears first, followed by a heavy Kansai dialect that shouts, “Thought I told ya t’ come by when we’re open!”

He turns around in slight fear of the owner of the restaurant. He feels like he’s been caught staring at his phone by a teacher instead of listening in class. This is what he gets for avoiding walking this way for around a week.

He’s stuck. Miya doesn’t tear his eyes away from him and he might be six feet tall, but damn it if he doesn’t feel like a third-grader when he’s cornered like this.

“Must have missed those hours then,” he shrugs, finally exhaling. It’s not an outright lie.

“Nah, nah, I saw ya here, coupla days ago. I even waved at ya.” Okay, maybe it is an outright lie. “Look, I didn’t mean to startle a potential customer. I gotta head back in, but the offer to come inside still stands, y’know?”

Suna can’t tear his eyes away as Miya almost _sheepishly_ returns to the restaurant, like he'd suddenly grown a tail and has tucked it between his legs. He’s more than happy to stand there looking at the empty spot for the rest of the day, but his stomach disagrees, begging him to provide some form of nutrition. 

Defeated by his own organs, he slumps even further and slinks into the restaurant as quietly as he can. He nearly leaves the moment he steps inside, but his stomach pushes him to the counter as he hides the lower half of his face in his turtleneck.

Suna’s never seen this much onigiri before. There are around eight different fillings on offer, then behind the counter he can see someone grilling a few in the kitchen, and there even are a few Samurai balls on offer. If he were to look at a menu, he’d probably find more than just onigiri on offer, but his bank account wouldn’t be too happy about it.

“If yer worried about upsettin’ me, don’t worry. I don’t have favourites,” grins the grey-eyed restaurateur, leaning on the counter, feeling rather proud that he actually got Suna to step inside.

Suna looks at the display, thinks of how light his wallet felt when he picked it up, and hesitates slightly when thinking of what he wants. 

“I’ll take two with the salmon filling.” He presses a hand against his gut when his stomach decides to argue that it’s not _enough_. It’s his cheapest option, and he’s still waiting on this month’s salary.

He’s being watched as he takes out his wallet, he can feel it, and it’s strange to be on the receiving side of a stare like that. He looks up, but Miya’s already moving away to package his order.

“Hope they’re good ‘nough to make ya wanna come back.” That lazy grin is back, and he matches it with a smirk of his own as he passes over the necessary change.

“If you’re raking in customers day in day out, I’d say they probably will be. Thanks.”

“So yer sayin’ yer gonna actually come inside next time ‘stead of speedin’ off?”

“Might just do, Miya,” he says, which makes his nose crinkle in disappointment and he finds the action wrenches at his heart a little.

He looks a little irritated when he says, “Nah, none of that. It’s Osamu or nothin’, Sunarin.”

“Osamu. Thank you for the food. I’m gonna leave now, before I take up anymore time you could be spending on your customers.”

“Tomorrow!” he shouts just as Suna’s hand reaches for the door. “I wanna see ya here tomorrow!” He simply smiles a smile that means ‘we’ll see’, and then leaves into the crisp air that bites nicely at his cheeks.

When he’s sure Mi—When he’s sure _Osamu_ can’t see him through those big windows of his restaurant, he opens the little takeaway box he’s been given (which is really the cutest thing he’s ever seen, especially with the silver fox hiding behind three rice balls) and finds that he’s been duped.

Instead of two with salmon filling, there are _three_ , along with one he thinks is pickled plum. 

Maybe he will be coming back tomorrow afternoon, he thinks.

* * *

He is very much prepared to throw his laptop out of the window by the time he sends his last email of the night, wishing he’d taken a nap after he got back this morning. Running on coffee and energy drinks all day is not something he’s keen on repeating tomorrow. If he had one, his coach would kill him for not taking care of himself.

Slayer plays at a moderate volume through his phone as he puts away clean and dry dishes, not wanting to get a complaint from the neighbours below or above that his music isn’t letting them sleep. If it was classical, they probably wouldn’t mind so much, but he only listens to that when he’s on the ice. Otherwise, it’s a distraction, the only one he can’t tolerate.

He leans back against the counters, elbows bent behind him, and he looks at the not-so-new night that’s fallen outside. It’s a little less dark than they have been so far, a lot more stars than usual. If he had a balcony, he’d probably be sitting on it, wistful about skating under a sky like that.

His old house, the one he shared, was farther away from the rink than the apartment he’s currently holed up in, but it was built around a five-minutes walk away from woods where, if you wandered far enough, you could stumble upon a pond that would freeze over perfectly each winter.

When he was old enough and practise had been cancelled or he’d get to go home early, he’d sneak out just after dinner with his skates and head into those woods, take that first step onto ice that never seemed to crack until warmer weather came about.

He’d take his sister there with him on Sundays. He’d shared drinks with his friends before they should have been drinking. He’d landed his first triple axel on the ice that didn’t last a whole year round.

His coach had told him not to bother with memories when they first started, that he didn’t need them to keep going. Somehow, those memories had managed to sneak up on him.

He turns down the music on his phone and heads into the bathroom to grab a towel to dry off his wet hair, and unfortunately catches sight of the dark circles under his eyes before he can look away from the mirror.

He’ll go tomorrow morning, even if it’s going to be a lot. No point in ruining a perfectly good routine, right? He can catch up on sleep another time if needs be.

**Kenma**

**_If you’re not asleep yet, go, Sakusa left practise pissed off today_ **

**Suna**

**_So what you’re saying is I get to piss him off more with my salchows tmrw?_ **

**Kenma**

**_Convinced you have a death wish_ **

**_Have fun with that_ **

Oh, he’s definitely going to have fun with it. He hadn't’ actually seen him today, but if Sakusa’s pissed off, it means he’s been popping his jumps out of nowhere. It’s happened two or three times before, and every time after, he comes back with this murderous look in his eyes like he wants to set the rink on fire.

He’s tired beyond words as he crawls into bed, but still his eyes stare into his phone, enjoying the painful glare of the light emitted. It burns his eyes nicely as he scrolls through his different socials, laughing at things that shouldn’t be funny. It’s when he’s looking at his Instagram home page, watching stories of his old classmates, that he gets a pop up ad for a restaurant he recognises all too well.

Algorithms have always terrified him with their accuracy, and if he wasn’t so attached to his phone, he’s pretty sure he’d throw it out. Still, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he follows the ad to the profile it’s promoting.

Everything is organised perfectly, designed to catch your attention, and he’s sure there’s no way Osamu did this all by himself. What catches his eye further, however, is the fact that any and all pictures that show his face tend to have a little more likes and a little more comments.

The most recent one is from yesterday, a picture of an older couple that looks suspiciously like his parents sitting down and eating lunch with their son. He smiles and decides to comment something bold — from a private account, he’s cautious — before he can regret it.

**Clearly good looks run in the family**

He’s not going to deny the thoughts that tell him Osamu is attractive, but even if he agrees with them, it’s better to test the waters first. There’s no point in pushing further than necessary, especially when the food tastes as good as it does for a reasonable price. Granted, he’s been there once, but that was enough for his stomach to develop a very strong attachment. So much so, in fact, he’s considered making some actual food once he gets the time.

It’s amusing to him how a complete stranger is making him want to take care of himself when they’ve barely exchanged a few sentences. Him going back tomorrow is not yet locked in place, the idea still swimming through his mind, but he isn’t sure he’s ready to become a regular just yet. Keeping Osamu on his toes, wondering when he’s going to show up next, is as good a plan as any.

He places his phone to charge on the nightstand and closes his eyes, head back against the pillow, imagining that night sky outside of his window. It’d be a nice view to fall asleep to, and if he was rich enough, he’d buy an apartment on the top floor with a skylight placed perfectly above his bed. A dream that might once have been achievable has long since fizzled out.

There’s a knock on his door the instant he feels himself falling asleep. His phone tells him he’s actually managed to sleep to 04:13, so it’s not like his alarm wasn’t going to go off in about ten minutes, but he feels even less inclined to get up than he usually does. When the knocking becomes more consistent, though, there’s not much he can do to ignore it.

He doesn’t bother trying to look presentable, just shrugs on a t-shirt and opens the door with a tired-out arm. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees a non-slouching, perfectly straightened, and perfectly presented Sakusa Kiyoomi on his doorstep. 

What the fuck.

“I’m not landing the quadruple Salchow. You are.” He groans internally the moment he hears those words because Sakusa doesn’t even have to ask the question before he knows what he wants from him.

“I’m no coach. I can’t just magically make you get it.”

“So let me watch you. Just today.” He wants to groan again but he can’t, because he’s not asking for anything unreasonable. Suna sighs and opens the door further, so he can come in, which he does ever so cautiously.

“Give me a minute to get my shit together, will you? You’re early,” says Suna, and with that he disappears into the bedroom to, like he so eloquently said, get his shit together.

The walk to the rink is mostly spent in silence, February air a force to be reckoned with. His skates feel heavier than normal against his back as he tries to figure out how Sakusa even found out where he lives. His best guess is Akaashi.

He takes a glance at the skater walking beside him out of the corner of his eye, looking him up and down, wondering why he’s suddenly asking for his help. There’s nothing special about his Salchows, and surely he could ask someone else.

It takes him a while to build up the courage to ask the question. He waits until Sakusa’s putting on hand gel after tying his laces, standing up tall in front of him. “Why me?”

“Because you’ve won the most gold medals, consistently, year after year. If you’re not competing this year, then I’m going to take the medal that was meant for you, but I can’t do it without help. And next year, when you do compete, I want to be able to take your win out from under you.”

It’s the most straightforward, to the point answer he could get; honest, too. Suna smiles at the eagerness, slouching a little less from the hidden praise. He doesn’t need it, but it’s not every day he hears just how much someone wants to beat him.

“Just wasn’t expecting you to be annoyed to the point of coming in with me at five,” shrugs Suna, heading to the rink, earphones already in place. Vivaldi trickles into his ears as he takes that first step on the ice, warm despite the irony.

It’s not hard to get himself in the mood. As soon as the music comes on, it’s like someone’s blown a whistle and he has approximately ten seconds to pull himself together or go home, and he’s not one to quit.

He doesn’t mind being watched, assessed. It’s why he was drawn to competing in the first place, because the pressure he felt was a welcome distraction to his otherwise rambling and incoherent thoughts. Either he focused on retaliating to that pressure or he failed, and you don’t win gold with failure.

He works up to the first Salchow with a few small jumps, before going for it as smoothly as he can. He repeats the movements two more times and then he stops, looking at Sakusa, who hasn’t moved since he stepped onto the ice.

“Have you ever skated in a pair?” He was sure the answer was going to be no before he asked, and the way Sakusa’s eyes pop out of his head, he knows he’s right. “I’m not gonna ask you to do lifts or anything. I just need to know how good you are with synchronised movement.”

With his mask off, Suna can see every ounce of hesitation on his face. “You want me to move with you?”

“It’s better than just standing on the side-lines. Here,” says Suna, taking out his earphones. “No music for now. We’ll build up to that.”

Again, the hesitation is obvious, but he moves forward, coming up next to him, distance still well kept. It’s a step in the right direction, at least, and though he’s really not keen on labelling himself as a teacher, he hopes he can at least give Sakusa what he wants.

He does a double toe loop, Sakusa copies. His spread eagle into a double axel is reciprocated. A triple Salchow that they both land perfectly, and eventually, a quadruple, but he pops his jump at the last second.

Sakusa looks like he wants to curse the world out and Suna’s mouth curls into a grin as he says, “Let’s go again.”

The sequence of a double toe loop, a spread eagle into a double axel, a triple Salchow and then a quadruple is repeated more than once, more than thrice. By the sixth failed attempt, even Suna is agitated and he stops in front of Sakusa, not letting him go any farther.

“I’m doing my best,” sighs Sakusa, irritated.

“No, you’re thinking about what you’re doing. There’s no time for that when you have four minutes and thirty seconds to prove yourself in the long programme. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that looking back costs you more than time?”

He’s gotten better at short but still dramatic monologues over the years, he thinks. What God took away from him in age he more than made up for in being a ‘wiseass’, as Kenma so nicely put one day.

“They told me I need to be perfect. Are you saying having nothing in your brain makes you perfect all of a sudden?” Sakusa isn’t smiling, but the intent to is there, and Suna sees right past him.

“You need to forget that you’re trying to impress someone. Do the Salchow because you want to and it’s going to feel different. Maybe you’ll actually land it this time.”

Suna swings himself up to sit on the border, happy to watch Sakusa mull through the words in his mind. He places his chin in his palms and waits for the younger to sigh in defeat and start moving his legs again, into the sequence they’ve been going over so far. 

He falls the first three times, hands unscathed under his protective gloves. And then he does something Suna didn’t think he could do — he stops, breathes, and tells his mind (he’s guessing a little bit here) to shut up.

The next time he attempts the sequence, he picks up just the right amount of speed and finally, finally manages to turn those four revolutions in the air before he falls, but not before he _lands_.

Suna feels strangely proud, like a mother at a talent show. His face contorts at the feeling as he steps back down, gliding towards someone who is apparently his new student.

“How does it feel to have nothing in your head?”

“Like I can take your win out from under you,” he says, and his eyes sparkle dangerously, like he’s already looking at a gold medal about to be hung around his neck.

Suna, impassive, deadpan, ‘I have a wall for a face’ Suna, laughs and says, “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m no longer skating professionally. I don’t even have a coach to bully me into competing anymore.”

Sakusa’s about as confused and angry as everyone else was when he made the declaration the first time around. Beginning of September he’d broken the news. Sakusa came along mid-October. By Halloween, Akaashi and Kenma had told him to stop sulking and get his ass back on the ice. He was back early November, but by then he’d been replaced, just like he’d expected. He was happy. It meant he had no one else’s expectations to meet.

All he’s ever really wanted to know is how far he could push himself. He’d found out in the Qualifiers. Now, he doesn’t need to worry about things like gold medals.

* * *

The meetings in the mornings become a regular thing. He still has an hour to himself from five to six, but when Sakusa gets there, he takes his earphones out and the two of them start moving like a pair. That’s the first change in an otherwise stable routine.

The second is one he likes a little better. The road that was being fixed not too long ago is all well and done, and so he no longer has the need to take a detour, but out of kindness (it’s what he tells himself at least), he takes the other way on Thursdays so he can walk into Onigiri Miya, a regular despite his earlier protests.

With the weather a little warmer now, he has no scarf to hide his chin in, no scarf to hide his already hidden smiles. Osamu is more than happy to point out when he’s grinning, which makes him press his lips into a firm line in retaliation.

Suna joins the back of the queue, a quiet shadow listening in a conversation the restaurateur is having with two very giggly high school girls, possibly college freshmen, although he doubts it.

“Osamu-san, you know we’ll be back tomorrow for more of your famous pickled plum onigiri. There’s no way we wouldn’t come back,” the shorter one chuckles, leaning on the counter and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Always good t’ hear your favourite regulars saying they look forward t’ comin’ back,” grins Osamu, flashing his pearly whites.

It’s actually quite entertaining to watch just how fake his flirting is with the girls he surely does not hold any interest in. “Coming back is worth every minute when we get to see you smile, Osamu-san,” says the taller one, also tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

After that sickly comment, Suna tunes out in fear of losing his appetite. He lets Kiss scream in his ears for a little longer as he waits for them to stop giggling like Osamu saying goodbye is the funniest thing in the world.

When they finally move away from the register, Suna decides to mimic their joyous attitude, leaning against the counter and smiling up at Osamu, twirling some hair on his finger. He’d throw up if this was his actual personality, but why should he deny himself some fun?

“ _Osamu-san,_ ” he sing-songs, mischievous glint in his eye. “I thought I was your favourite regular.”

“What makes ya think yer not, Sunarin?”

“Just didn’t think you were the kind to flirt with other women when I’m not around,” he sighs discontentedly. “If it’s alright with you, I’ll just take two of the salted cod and go.”

Osamu leans down now, face dangerously close, and it makes his heart stop for just a second as it tries to process the close proximity between them. In his grey eyes, he finds hints of something brown, of something warm, and he decides he likes that new detail.

“Tell ya what. How ‘bout ya take a seat at a free table, an’ I come over with three of the salted cod, two of the kelp, some tea to warm ya up, an’ I spend my break with ya? To make up for the flirtin’ with other women.”

He pretends to think it over before he slinks back, pointing towards a table near the back and heads over, happy to wait those few minutes for — and you’ll never hear him admit this — a conversation with someone who makes his whole day.

He’s never actually sat and eaten inside before, always running away before he can be kept behind, but he has thought about bringing his work with him here, and maybe, if he’s treated to the view of a certain grey-brown-eyed restaurateur in a tightly fitting grey t-shirt while he works, the idea wouldn’t be a bad one to agree to.

“So flirting is how you get people to keep coming back?” asks Suna as Osamu sits down. “Here I was thinking it was the fact that you could cook.”

“Can’t run a business without good looks,” he winks, sliding the plate of food closer to the skater, who still looks like he hasn’t been eating much more than before.

“Well, the cap really knocks you down to about a seven.” 

Suna grins as Osamu takes it off and runs his fingers through his hair to make it look like it’s not glued down to his head. “Better?”

“Much.” He means that. The dark brown tousles are something he wishes he could run his own fingers through, and if he were given the chance, he wouldn’t hesitate. His nails are a little longer too, since he has no kitchen to work in, and if his fingers ended up in that hair, his nails would drag along his scalp just to hear all the pretty noises he thinks he’d make.

“How’s yer translation goin’? Ya figure out how to say bandwidth in German yet?”

“ _Bandbreite_. Not remarkably interesting, I know, but that’s what a half-assed business degree gets you,” replies Suna, wiping some rice from the corner of his mouth, not noticing how Osamu watches the occurrence.

“So why don’t ya do somethin’ more interestin’ with it?”

He shrugs his shoulders, slouching as he continues eating. He’s sort of purposefully been avoiding telling Osamu what he does with his spare time, because he’s kind of happy about having someone he doesn’t know every single detail about his life.

Osamu is new here, and if he doesn’t recognise Suna right away the way the elders do, the ones who watched him from the moment he started competing, he’ll happily live with that. He’s more than happy to be his incredibly mundane, translating-for-a-living favourite customer until such a time where he inevitably finds out.

“It’s fun in its own way. Keeps me busy, keeps my mind working, and you’d be surprised at the amount of curse words you learn over the phone.” He smiles a little and the rice in his mouth pushes his cheeks out.

“Well, if it makes ya smile, it can’t be that bad.”

His lips turn into a firm line. “I’m not smiling.”

It’s quite a bold lie for him to tell, and covering it up with a cup of tea is not really working in his favour. Osamu, of course, sees right through it, but doesn’t say a word, just watches as Suna tries to cover for himself.

“Stop staring at me, weirdo. Your girlfriends will get jealous.” Osamu places his chin on his palm.

“Ya know, if anyone’s jealous here, Sunarin, it’s _you_. Always demandin’ my attention when ya come in here, an’ now ya’ve got me spendin’ my breaks with ya.” It’s a solid rebuttal that even Suna can’t argue with.

“What can I say? I enjoy the company provided. Plus, it keeps me coming back, doesn’t it?”

This time when Suna wipes away some rice from the corner of his lips, he makes sure his eyes stare into Osamu’s, green pupils dangerous as he sucks the rest of the food off his thumb painstakingly slowly.

He feels rather like a puppet master when he sees the flushed cheeks on the man’s face, and he just blinks, innocent. He is, however, being cautious, and won’t go much further than that. The last thing he needs is to make him uncomfortable enough to pull a face of disdain, a notice that he’s not interested, be it in him or guys in general.

Everyone always says that the world is more accepting these days. Everyone also always lies.

“Hey, ‘Samu?” he asks through a mouthful of food.

“Hm?”

“I know my eyes are pretty and everything, but don’t you have a restaurant to get back to?”

* * *

The thing on his face is definitely a scowl when he hears the merciless pounding on the front door of the restaurant from the biggest shithead on the planet, and he almost doesn’t open it. He wouldn’t, if it wasn’t for the fact that his brother isn’t alone.

“Ya here to buy out my shop after closin’ time again, ‘Tsumu?”

“Damn right I am. Me an’ Bokkun need sustenance if we wanna survive the journey,” grins the shithead, Bokuto hanging off him, buzzed up at the prospect of another away game. “At least I called ahead this time.”

It’s a good thing he did too, because he’s not sure when he would have scrounged up two of each onigiri he sells nearly an hour after closing time. “Myaa-sam, you’re too good to us. You’ve been feeding us for so long I could kiss you in thanks,” chirps Bokuto.

“Tha’s my job. I gotta make sure everyone who comes in ‘ere is leavin’ satisfied, even if my brother’s old ‘nough to be takin’ care of himself.” The shithead pulls a face that lands him a knock upside the head.

“The hell, ‘Samu?!”

“Ya shouldn’t pull faces like that, or yer gonna get stuck with it. Though in yer case it’d be an improvement.” Osamu turns away and takes out three take away boxes from the small fridge behind the register.

“We have the same face, idiot.”

He places the boxes in a paper bag so they don’t drop rice balls all over the pavement. “Nah, mine’s better. More defined, handsome. Pretty sure Kiyo’s regretting having ya as his Miya brother of choice.”

Bokuto reaches for the bag of food gingerly as Atsumu adopts a face like he’s ready to hop over the counter and sock his brother straight on the jaw for that comment. “Hah? And when was the last time ya had a stable relationship, ya dick?”

“‘Tsumu, I have a second restaurant to deal with now, I don’t have the time for somethin’ like a relationship.” It’s a white lie, because sure that, for the right person, he’d be able to make time, he’d _want_ to make time. “Go on, get. Ma’ll kill me if ya look dead at yer next match.”

“He’ll be fine, and if he’s too excited, I’ll smother him with a pillow,” Bokuto assures, hanging himself on Atsumu again, gripping the bag of food very tightly and very excitedly. He’s not so much happy to be going away from home as he is about the coach journey with the team.

“Ya better be sleepin’ too, ‘Samu!” calls Atsumu as he’s huddled out of the door. “Else I’ll come back early to kick yer ass!”

“Love ya too, shithead!”

Brotherly love, especially when you’re twins, is like that. You’ll call each other the worst insults you can think of, you’ll hit and punch each other out of nowhere just to get your way, but at the end of the day, you’re really saying I love you in the most unconventional way.

He closes up properly after that, one final glance to make sure everything is set up for the next morning before turning the lights off and heading back home, to an apartment that doesn’t really feel like his. He’s renting, primary residence still Hyogo, but depending on how things go here, he knows he’ll need to make a decision about where he’s going to stay.

His thoughts are quashed when he walks right on into a lanky frame that feels almost familiar, sending it straight to the ground. 

“Woah, I jus’ walked right into ya—Sunarin?” He blinks at the figure rubbing the back of his head, his arm still extending in an offering to help him up.

“Can’t be sure,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his words as he takes the hand and stands up straight. “Running into your chest feels like running into a concrete wall.”

“Liar. My chest is a bed of pillows, and ya can quote me on that.”

Here, in the dark hours of the night and shined on by street lights, he can see all the details of Suna’s face all too well. How his face is a little paler, how the bags under his eyes are a little darker, how his cheekbones are slightly hollow, how tiredness bounces off of him no matter if he’s smiling or sulking or stoic.

“What’chya doin’ out so late?” 

Suna readjusts a bag on his shoulder that, despite being seemingly heavy, doesn’t really affect him much. “Spending time with friends. Taking the long way home.”

Evening Suna is very different to Afternoon Suna, Osamu realises very quickly. He’s slouching more, he’s avoiding a conversation and he looks antsy, like bumping into Osamu is the last thing he needed.

“You need a lift home? I don’t want a customer catching a cold.”

“It’s fine, I don’t live far,” he says, shaking him off. ‘I don’t live far’, he’s come to learn, oftentimes really means _I don’t want to cause you any trouble even if a lift would be really great right about now_.

“Don’t make me call ya a liar, Sunarin. Come on, I’ve got a spare jacket and helmet in the trunk anyway.” Suna’s head quirks at that, confused as to what he needs a helmet for. Osamu points behind him. 

It’s one of the sleekest models of a motorcycle he’s ever seen, shining in the moonlight despite being completely black in colour. It’s so unexpected that to some degree he’s _not_ surprised, the choice of vehicle somehow so incredibly Osamu.

“I appreciate the thought, but—” 

“Are ya scared?” A muscle in the back of his neck twitches and it’s like a switch in him flips because no one calls Suna Rintarō chicken and gets away with it. He’s not going to give in all that easy, though.

“Scared? When you look like someone who’s never ridden a motorcycle in his life?”

“It’s not nice to call people liars, Sunarin.”

“You’ve called me one twice already. There’s no way the motorcycle belongs to you. You probably don’t even look good on top of it.”

They’re teetering on this line of _will I, won’t I_ and, with the same look in his eye that Suna had while wiping away the rice on his mouth, he takes out the two helmets and throws one of his legs over, his thighs looking so wonderfully firm in his jeans, and leans forward slightly, encouraging him to simply get on.

The trunk is still open, spare jacket peeking out. Osamu looks sinful with the way he’s sitting, appetising even. It truly is quite a line they’re teetering on.

Suna’s used to a red Nissan, with a familiar registration number, leather seats cold at first and then warmer the closer to their destination they’d get, no wind whipping in his hair, no one to hold onto tightly.

So who really knows why he takes the jacket, closes the trunk, and swings himself onto the seat behind Osamu, securing the helmet he’s been passed. Who really knows why the sound of the ignition turning on makes it a little easier to wrap his arms around the other man’s waist. Who really knows why he’s letting himself be slightly vulnerable, why he’s letting the wall he usually puts up as a front fall, brick by brick.

The city is quiet as Suna hooks his chin onto Osamu’s shoulder, guiding him through the empty streets to his home, his voice hushed with every direction he gives. It’s a strange kind of closeness, especially when he swerves a little too hard on a turn and those arms around his midsection tighten subconsciously.

They’re far too aware of their mortality, of the shortness of their lives. Osamu feels it every day, whenever he gets on and travels to work, early morning air hitting whatever area he’s left exposed. Earlier he was worried he hadn’t been forward enough. Now he’s worried that he’s been too forward, and that when he drops Suna off, he’s going to lose someone he thinks of as more than a customer.

The engine dies down in front of an apartment block about four stories high. The arms around his midsection slip away. A weight behind him disappears and a helmet is left in its place.

“Keep the jacket. Give it back another time,” he says, softer than usual. It feels almost wrong to be talking loudly this evening.

Suna adjusts the bag on his back. “Thanks for the ride. You didn’t have to.”

“I do this for all my favourite customers.” Suna’s face brightens a little. No smile, but it’s still brighter.

“You know for some reason, I can’t seem to see that being the truth.” He shakes his hair from where it’s been matted by the helmet, and Osamu wonders what it’d be like to have his fingers running through the dark brown mess.

“Hey, if yer ever still walkin’ the streets this late,” says Osamu, remembering himself, “why don’t ya let a guy know if ya need another lift?”

Suna looks at the phone in front of him, the contacts app open, waiting for an entry. He calls this man a friend these days, so why is he so freaked out about handing over his number to someone who has never pried, never wanted more than what he’s offered?

Osamu has never watched someone enter his number into their phone with such fascination.

They’ve known each other for barely a month. They’ve exchanged coy smiles and teasing words. They’ve flattered and thrown light insults. And now, they have each other’s numbers.

“If I’m ever in trouble, I now know who I can bother. Do I need to act like a damsel in distress when you come rescue me?”

“One would think that’s required.” Something is hiding behind those green eyes of his, but Osamu isn’t one to press. “I’m not gonna hang around, keepin’ ya up. Ya look like ya could use the rest.”

“I hope you know I am planning on returning your jacket to you. Not just going to keep it forever.” Osamu puts his helmet back on when Suna steps away, hands gripping the handlebars again.

“I hope not. ‘s one of my favourites.” 

It’s not really anything special, just strong leather meant to keep you warm while you ride, but it’s the thing he bought with his first paycheque from the shop back in Hyogo. He’s sort of jealous of how good Suna looks in it.

“I’ll be back before Thursday,” he says, before turning on his heel and heading inside the apartment block. Osamu can’t help hoping he’s not lying.

* * *

Everything in the apartment is quiet, not even a trickle of water coming from the kitchen sink as he takes his shoes off and leaves his bag by the door. He takes off the jacket, placing it over the back of the sofa, and then takes a beer from the fridge, leaning calmly with his back to the counter.

_His sister’s voice sounds small over the phone. “Are you really not going to say shit?”_

_“I don’t know what you want me to say. Clearly you’ve made the decision.”_

_“Well, I’m sorry I want to go and live my own life.” Her tone is sharper now. “I can’t spend forever thinking about someone else.”_

_“I never asked you to. I just thought you’d at least have the common decency to tell your own brother that you want to move out of the country two weeks before your plane is taking off.” He’s always been one to bite back._

_She sighs over the other end, like she’s gnawing on the skin of her lips like she’s always done since they were kids. They’ve been doing things over the phone for a few years now, and though they can’t see each other, they also know each other well enough to understand what they’re thinking._

_“I finished college. I need to move on. We both knew I couldn’t stay in that house forever.”_

_“I know. It’s not that I don’t want you to go, it’s just… I’m worried,” he sighs, placing his forehead against his free palm._

_“She raised two kids with insane dreams. She’s stronger than you think, Rin.” Kana’s right, of course. His mother is one of the strongest people he’s ever met, but even the strong have a point that can break them. “She’s not alone anymore, too. You forget that, I think, that it’s not just us by her side anymore.”_

_He’s met his new stepfather a handful of times only, not having had much time for more. He’s nice enough, and Kana seems to have taken a liking to him, so he can’t be all that bad. What’s more important, though, is that he makes his mother happy, and that’s enough for him._

_“He hasn’t made any sort of contact in nearly a year. Besides, I’m pretty sure Dad can throw a mean punch to settle things if he does happen to show up on their doorstep.”_

_Right. Kana calls him Dad now. He’d forgotten about that._

_“So, Italy, huh? You even know Italian, idiot?”_

_“I’ll have you know I’ve been taking it along with my other studies for the past two years. Anyway, I’ve always got my good looks to tide me by just in case,” she says, and Suna swears he can hear her winking._

He picks at the label on the beer bottle, thinking about the situation. He shouldn’t be as worried about this as he is. After all, he was the one who stayed behind when his mother and sister moved when he graduated high school. Something about better education opportunities for Kana. 

He chose the rink. He has no right to stop his sister from choosing the world.

The beer is cold against his strangely hoarse throat, because it’s not like he’s been shouting or crying or having trouble breathing. It’s simply hoarse, like now that he doesn’t know what to say, his voice is leaving him.

His eyes catch the jacket on the back of the sofa, and he walks over to it, replacing the bottle in his hands with the soft leather. He remembers the soft look Osamu gave him when he asked what he was doing out so late, the evasive answer he gave him so he didn’t have to admit that he’d been falling over for the past half hour, his legs aching and skin taking multiple beatings.

The news of his sister moving away had rocked his core more than he’d care to admit, and he’d been off all night. Bumping into Osamu had pulled him out of every thought he’d been having about his family, and he’d been grateful for the distraction.

Fingers squeeze the material in earnest. He hadn’t needed to ask him to be there, he just was. He places the jacket over his shoulders and goes back into the kitchen, taking out a heat compress from one of the cupboards. While it warms up in the microwave, he takes off his trousers, waiting, looking at the months old scar on his calf.

He presses the compress against the calf gently, propping up his leg on a cushion, lying back with his eyes closed. On his bad days, he forgets he’s not invincible, and pushing forward hits him right at his breaking point.

He turns on the TV, looking for some sort of escape from the pain he can’t help but feel now. He’s sure something is playing, not interesting maybe, but still his brain can’t find it in him to focus on the images.

After a while he takes out his phone, needing a bigger distraction. He takes a good look at the new number in his contacts app.

**Suna**

**_I’m having second thoughts about giving you your jacket back_ **

He doesn’t expect a reply straight away, but he’s more than happy to wait the twenty minutes for it now that he can wait at all.

**Osamu**

**_You gonna make me come and take it from you forcefully?_ **

**Suna**

**_Depends on if you can remember my address_ **

**Osamu**

**_Guess I’ll have to follow you home when you come by next then_ **

Suna smiles at the way his accent disappears in his texts, and some part of him aches to hear his voice through a call, but he thinks he’ll give himself some time to build up to that. This is all very much still new territory.

**Suna**

**_Thanks for tonight_ **

**_Kinda needed that_ **

**Osamu**

**_You’re just saying that so I forget about the jacket you owe me_ **

He chuckles slightly, unable to stop himself. He’s still not exactly sure what he feels to this guy that’s got the most beautiful colours in his eyes he’s ever seen, but he’s sure that he _likes_ what he feels.

* * *

“You only popped two times. Impressive,” comments Suna, stretching his arms above his head as he hops off the barrier, wandering over to Sakusa.

“Everything I do is impressive,” he replies, not stopping the smirk that creeps up on him. Sakusa, he’s found out, is actually a little shit once you get to know him properly. He doesn’t mind it in the least.

“Good. Think you can do with some music now?”

Ah. This has him a little off guard, but there’s no use putting it off any longer. “Music?”

“Look, I’m not going to be here in about five minutes, and I know you and your coach have been trying to figure out something for the short, so go through this when you can and pick something.”

He takes out his phone from the pocket that zips and sends Sakusa a playlist that has all the songs he’s used for shorts since he competed in his first Juniors competition. He’s not forcing him to pick something from it if he doesn’t want to, but it might at the least be useful as inspiration.

“It’s like I’ve got a second coach now. You’re not going to make me start running an hour earlier on my day off, are you?”

“Would you listen?” Sakusa shakes his head gently. “Thought as much. Anyway, the playlists all yours. I’ll see you in two days?” He nods, and that’s his cue to leave.

Tomorrow is Tuesday. Tuesdays mean training by himself in the morning, alone, because the Seniors are doing their exercises elsewhere, but he still comes by in his usual hours, not really wanting to see the Juniors for longer than he has to. They’re annoying, overeager, and ask too many questions.

He shrugs on his own jacket once he’s done changing, Osamu’s safely in his bag, ready to be returned.

Early March is surprisingly warm as he tilts his head up in the morning sun. The wind that smacks him across the face in the next few seconds has him rethinking that statement, wisps of his bangs falling across his eyes.

“Skipping before I can get here? Didn’t think you wanted to avoid me that much.” Suna’s eyes dart out, seeking the voice that’s standing next to a red Nissan.

“Coach Kurosu,” he says simply, like he hasn’t not been his coach since September. 

“Jacket and scarf. Good to see you’re finally keeping warm.”

He shivers involuntarily in the materials. “I just run cold.”

“Too much coffee and energy drinks over the years. Surprised they never affected your performance,” comments his old coach, heading closer to the entrance. Suna shifts, uncomfortable with the way his gaze burns into him. It’s been a while since they’ve been face to face.

“How’s Riseki?”

“Good.” _Could be better. He’ll be lucky to win bronze by the time he gets out of his head. No natural-born conviction. Not like yours._ Suna has long since learnt to read between the lines.

“So long as he’s making progress.”

“Hm. How’s the leg?” 

It twinges in pain for no apparent reason. “Fine.”

“Right. Well, I won’t be keeping you.” The exchange is short, but it’s enough to have Suna’s stomach churning with the feeling of disappointment. He’s not going to deny the fact that he liked having someone who only wanted him to better himself. He will deny, with all his heart, that he misses it.

He goes on walking, the ache in his calf ever-present, more so now after their conversation. Like seeing his face a little too close brought back memories that hit a little too close to home.

Because they do. Because his mother may have been married to two men in her life now, but there’s only one man he’s ever thought of as a father. Someone who understood his dream before he did.

He pulls on the skin inside of his lip, restless. He thinks about that stupid red Nissan and the leather seats that drove him to and from each competition, about the heater that never worked properly so he had to cover himself in the blankets from the backseat, about how flowers and gifts would fill up the trunk on the way back home from gold, about the recording of his programmes would sit on his lap for his mother to watch when she couldn’t make it.

He turns up the screams of AC/DC in his ears, wanting to drown out the praises and criticisms he’s slowly remembering. Instead, he focuses on stepping on every crack that comes under his trainers. It’s too late to think about long-lost dreams anyway.

Except he barely makes it out of the road the rink is on to turn the corner before there’s a noise louder than his music behind him.

“Oi, Bean Sack! Stop slouching!” He stops in his tracks and feels much like a startled cat. He turns around, groaning when he sees a very overexcited recent college graduate.

Kana throws herself at him before he can stop her, far too fondly rubbing her knuckles into his hair and bringing him down to her level. She’s not that far off from his height, but she’s still a few centimetres shorter. She more than makes up for it with the length of her limbs, however, and it’s successfully gotten her scouted for a gymnastics team in Italy.

“Who the hell are you calling a bean sack when you walk like a new-born giraffe?” he counters when he wrestles out of her grip, taking his earphones out. “And where did you even come from?”

“The train station, duh. And don’t call your sister a giraffe after she came all this way to see you,” she scoffs, adjusting the backpack on her shoulder that’s a little bit too stuffed for his liking.

He squints. “You’re crashing on my sofa, aren’t you?”

“No, _you’re_ taking the sofa, _I’m_ taking the bedroom. My legs won’t fit anyway, and besides, it’s just for a few days. I wanted to see you before I left.” 

“I’m taller than you, I’m the older sibling, and it’s my apartment. I’m not sleeping on the sofa.” 

He is one hundred per cent sleeping on the sofa.

“Sure, sure, uh-huh. Anyway, take me to drop off my stuff and then we’ll go get breakfast. I doubt you’ve eaten anything concrete today and the three eggs I had before I left are simply not enough.”

Kana’s appetite has always meant he gets stuffed with more food than he’d like, and he’s not sure if he can handle that this early on a Monday morning, but he thinks he can hold out for a sister he hasn’t seen in a good couple months.

“So, you’re all sorted for Italy then? You never mentioned what city you’re starting in.” He adjusts his bag; she adjusts her rucksack.

“Venice, I think. Still waiting on the official _official_ itinerary. You’re more than welcome to come visit when you find a moment in your schedule.” He winces internally, knowing that his sister is holding out hope that he’ll be competing next year again.

They find other things to talk about to fill the silence as they walk, catching up on all the small milestones they’ve missed in each other’s lives. Kana confides that her second relationship with a girl ended in heartbreak — not hers, she claims her ‘Sagittarius moon’ wouldn’t allow it. Rin tells her he’s earning more with his translation these days, has even refined his Portuguese, and is willing to refine his Italian for her.

There are three years between them, but he swears she’s caught up with his maturity faster than he would have expected. A piece of him regrets not moving with them when she started high school.

They’re not in his apartment for too long, just enough for the both of them to take a shower and change, concluding that there’ll be plenty of time for lazing around in the evening. Besides, Kana seems to think that her hometown has changed much in her absence, a thought he is more than happy to prove wrong.

They settle for an old spot near the centre of town, now run by someone other than Mrs Ito who would always save them both a strawberry cupcake for when they came round on Saturday mornings, someone who at least had the sense to preserve the interior instead of modernising it. Perhaps a relative, he muses.

“Hey, no going stoic on me! I came here to talk to my brother in person for once instead of calling him like an old drunk at odd hours of the night.”

“I’m really not that interesting.” She rolls her eyes, not believing him for a second. “How’s Mom? She come to terms with you leaving yet?”

“Felt better about it when Dad told her he’d buy her plane tickets to my first official competition. I told him to hold off until I made it to the Olympics, but you know, he’s proud and all that stuff.”

“Olympics? When were you planning on telling me you wanted to go to the Olympics?” He raises a brow.

She shrugs, taking a bite of her katsu plate. “Thought it’d be a fun surprise to turn on the TV and see me winning gold.” Yeah, that sounds like last-minute Kana alright.

“You’re crazy. I can’t believe we’re related.”

“Oh, please, you’d probably do the same if you had the opportunity. Mm, that reminds me, Ma needs you to come by in a few weeks, take some stuff that was yours all along.”

Rin has no idea how Olympics and boxes of old stuff correlate, but then he never really understood how his sister could run through thoughts at a mile a minute. He takes a reluctant bite of his soba.

“What could I have possibly been missing all these years?” 

“Hell if I know,” she says, mouth full of food, not having changed a bit in that aspect. “Besides, does it matter? When was the last time you were there anyway? It’d do you some good to visit Ma.”

She’s too right for her own good. He even missed out on spending Christmas and New Year’s Day together, giving some half-assed excuse that he can’t even remember. Kana had called him, of course, called him out on his bullshit there and then, but not his mother. She’d told him that she understood and told him to visit soon.

He’s always had the ability to let time slip meaninglessly through his fingers. Never in a rush, never caring enough to slow down, take a look. Time is always going to move forward, and there’s nothing much exciting about the past to make him stay there.

Except, that’s a lie, he thinks before he can squash the thought away. Because if he’s decided to never compete professionally again, then there should be no reason for him to keep showing up at the rink. Yet he does, like the hypocrite he is. And he’ll probably go tonight, too.

He lives his life by a routine, even if he hates adhering to it. He was always so seemingly unmotivated, no one ever knew how he spent so long on the ice, being asked to show a little more enthusiasm in the mornings when he got his coffee taken away. He thinks the surprise on everyone’s faces was what he always liked the most.

He takes a good look at Kana, who’s stuffing her face and telling a story about some ‘Scorpio jerk’ that she should have known better about and then maybe she wouldn’t have had to throw a beer in his face. Seems the college and post-college experience really is something.

Kana’s the loud one. Rin’s the quiet one. They’ve both got dreams bigger than them, and only one of them still believes they can achieve them. He’s jealous of her confidence, wonders where his went. His leg shakes under the table.

“Oi, ya listening to me or what? This is important stuff here, your horoscope defines your life,” she remarks, snapping him out of his daze.

He listens through mouthfuls of soba, thinking about the jacket in his bag back home. He may, in fact, not make it back to Onigiri Miya before Thursday.

* * *

Their goodbye is bittersweet. For once, Suna opts to miss practise in the morning, sleeping in a little longer so he can walk her back to the station, proper meal in her stomach. She’s thankful for it, even if her brother isn’t the biggest cook out there. Still, it’s the little things.

She’d of course called him not five minutes after her train had left the station, making sure he hadn’t started spontaneously crying, although he’s pretty sure the sentences were said through tears. He’d reassured her that he’d visit Ma within the next three months and that he’d make sure to tune into her first competition, so she better let him know when it was going to be.

There were a few lies sprinkled here and there, his mind calls, but he opts to ignore it, just enjoying the warmth of the Thursday morning breeze on his skin as he stares at the outside of the entrance to the station, wearing someone else’s jacket. If Kana had noticed, she hadn’t commented.

“Nice jacket yer wearing.”

He almost laughs at the fact that fate is working circles around him to keep the two of them meeting like this, turning his head with a lazy smile. Usually, he’d let it be coaxed out of him, but then usually he’d be wearing his own clothes.

“Isn’t it? Just showed up in my apartment one day.” Osamu laughs, hands stuffed in his pockets. _No helmet_ , he notes. “What are you doing here instead of your restaurant, Chef?”

“I’m having someone else open up for once. Needed to mail a gift to my Ma if I don’t make it home for her birthday next week. What about ya? Never seen ya around this early.”

“My sister came to see me. Just making sure she gets home okay.”

“Younger?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

Osamu shrugs his shoulders. “Seemed like the type.”

It’s this wordless knowledge that’s enchanting, draws him in. Osamu just knows without asking, like he understands that he thinks of answering questions as one of the worst things in the world.

“Strange seeing you without a cap on your head,” says Suna, looking at the brown waves being pushed about in the wind, sun reflecting off his eyes, and he’s fully aware that he’s staring.

“I try not t’ look like a chef with a bad back when I’m in public.” He flashes his teeth with the smile he gives. It makes him melt like forgotten ice cream in summer heat. “Jacket suits ya.”

“I was going to give it back after I went home and changed. Figured I really should since I told you I’d come by before Thursday and didn’t.” Osamu waves the words away.

“Ya were spendin’ time with yer family. ‘s fine.”

There’s something on his tongue he’s itching to say, and it feels like sandpaper, making his throat coarse for no reason, like someone’s stuffed a woollen cloth down it. He coughs the cloth up.

“If you can take the morning off, I’d like to make it up to you.” 

He’s done teetering on the line of _will I, won’t I_ , and it's brushed away as he steps over it. His weight shifts from one foot to the other as he waits for something, anything.

Something like a soft facial expression and a delicate smile.

“I think that can be arranged. But, uh, consider it my treat. Since ya’ve been payin’ me for yer lunches.” He opens his mouth to protest but is stopped. “No ifs ands or buts ‘bout it.”

“You’ve already lent me your jacket. Can’t that be your treat?”

He’s not a fan of being the one being pampered and coddled, although Osamu seems insistent. “A free jacket when ya were cold is not a treat. Ya scared of lettin’ me take the reins, Sunarin?”

Terrified, but he doesn’t dare say it. Not everything needs his controlling hand.

“They’re all yours.” 

He’s anxious in giving up his control over the situation, and he’s twisting and pulling at the fingers hidden in his pockets, his heart beating against his chest like rain on a window, but when they fall into step together, a wave of relaxation spreads through him.

Maybe it’s the jacket he’s wearing, meant for fast motorcycle rides. Maybe it’s the leftover feelings from his sister’s visit. Maybe it’s the warm body next to him talking about the queue at the post office, but the late winter air doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

He’s happy to let Osamu do the talking until they’re turning onto a street that unveils a bustling marketplace, a few owners still prepping stalls, and he stands for a minute, taking in the colours, realising just how long it’s been since he was actually here. Around half a year after he graduated, maybe earlier, he can’t be sure. Time is strange like that.

“Why open up your store here?” Suna might kick him in the shin if he answers something stupid like he was drawn to the city, so he holds his breath and waits for a sensible answer.

“My brother moved here a while ago, scouted the market for me. Figured it was worth the risk.”

“You have a brother?”

He’s all too aware of the ground under his feet as Osamu leads the way. “Yeah. He’s not worth mentionin’ half the time so I don’t bother. Yer better off with me, anyway.” Suna doesn’t bother suppressing his snort.

“You think highly of yourself.” His earlier snort is met with a grin.

“Just being honest. Ya were the one who asked _me_ out.” The phrasing barely registers before he’s talking again. “What’s yer relationship with macarons?”

‘Non-existent’ is clearly the wrong answer because he’s being tugged to a stall where there are hundreds of coloured, round circles filled with a creamy mousse, not really sure how to distinguish the flavours. Not that he really has to, because Osamu is already bargaining with the stall’s owner, trying to drive down the price.

He doesn’t even realise when the yen is being handed over and by then he has no way of getting his wallet out to pay even though it’s not his treat, because there’s a box of macarons in his hands, ready to be consumed.

“Yer gonna love it, promise.” Suna shrugs, like someone buying a dozen sweets for him to try simply because he’s never had them is the most normal thing in the world.

“I trust you.”

He’s taken aback at how easily the words leave him. Really, they don’t mean all that much in context, but it’s enough to have wind trickle down his spine, making him aware of all thirty-three bones.

They talk a little bit more, exchanging anecdotes of how stupid their siblings are, Osamu’s reactions louder and slightly more obvious, but it doesn’t mean he’s having any less of a good time. He likes giving little parts of himself away.

“Do you like coffee?” he all but blurts out while he’s talking about jumping over some fence when he was fifteen, grip faltering slightly on the box. “There’s a café near the end of the street that sells good and sells cheap. I think you’d like it.”

“Wouldn’t own a restaurant if I didn’t like coffee.” It’s an obvious, straightforward answer, and it makes Suna more than conscious of his heart in his throat. He isn’t sure how he feels about that.

It’s driving him crazy, this urge to touch, to make contact, pretend it’s by accident. Osamu’s just some guy.

Just some guy that gave him an extra pickled plum onigiri when he didn’t ask; some guy who spent his break with him so he would feel wanted; some guy who doesn’t press for what Suna doesn’t give; some guy who gave him his jacket without asking questions; some guy who agreed to spend his morning with him and is treating him to sweets and coffee and _time_.

He’s just some guy that he wants to be more.

“How do you take your coffee?” asks Suna, stepping through the teal-tinted doorway, bunches of drying flowers hanging from the ceiling. It’s his favourite part, and he eagerly looks at Osamu, who’s taking it all in.

“White, no sugar. And ya?”

“Cappuccino, if I’m feeling fancy. Plain black if I’m caffeine-starved.” Osamu’s still looking up, noticing the book pages filling the empty spaces. “Grab a table, I’ll order for us.”

It’s natural as the words slip out. ‘I’ll order for us’. _Us_. He wants to say it over and over again.

Omitting the part that this is a place where you pay upfront, he makes the order for one cappuccino and one white and carries them over to the booth he’s picked out when they’re ready, still entranced with the ceiling. He’s probably got a million ideas for Onigiri Miya running through his mind right now.

“Close yer eyes and pick a colour,” Osamu says when he takes a seat. The box of macarons has been opened and there’s a determined look on his face. Suna’s sure he’ll like whatever Osamu feeds him.

Eyelashes flutter closed. “Do you have green?”

“Dark or light?”

“Light.” Something presses against his lips and he opens up, some crumbs left behind when he bites, swiping to pick them up with his tongue. The flavour is impossible not to recognise. “Matcha, that was easy.”

They continue like this for a few minutes, Suna naming basic colours he thinks he can easily guess, not making a single mistake. Lemon, strawberry, coffee, banana, red velvet — all correct.

“Okay, try this,” laughs Osamu, clearly enjoying himself. 

He thinks he’s got it at first, when something tangy comes out, but it turns subdued faster than he can open his eyes and accuse Osamu of giving him two different ones. He keeps chewing though, determined to win.

“Definitely orange and some form of cake, I think. No idea what else.” He parts his lips in anticipation for more. “One more time.”

This time when the macaron graces his lips, Osamu’s fingers linger for a second more, his thumb pushing gently, wiping at any crumbs leftover. He’s sure that if his eyes were open, he’d be met with a view he’d want to pounce at. He keeps them closed, if only for his own sanity.

The subdued flavour makes itself known and he wonders how the hell someone made a macaron like this. 

“Carrot cake,” he says, victorious.

“Damn. Okay, one more.” Mouth open. “This one's brown. Do with that what ya will.”

He nearly chokes thanks to the scoff he wants to let out, because what the hell is he supposed to do with the colour brown when it comes to food? Still, he bites, wanting to impress with one final correct answer.

“Chocolate.” He can’t believe he’s gotten such an easy one. He opens his eyes, staring right at Osamu, smug.

And then he asks, “What kind?”

Any taste of the mousse dies on his tongue immediately. He has absolutely no idea, and Osamu knows it all too well, borrowing the smug look for himself. He lifts up the other half of the macaron.

“Praline.”

“Where the hell did you get nuts from? No way, I don’t buy it.” The half turns into two quarters, one is passed to him. 

“Prove me wrong.”

Now, he knows that arguing with a chef on what is in food and what isn’t is probably one of his stupider ideas, but he’s not gonna back out now, not even when there’s the unmistakable taste of praline mixed in with chocolate.

His head hangs heavy, groaning in defeat. “Damn.”

“Ya did well, don’t look so glum. Yer free to eat the rest of these without guessin’ what they are,” he chuckles, sliding the box over, hand brushing over his when he takes the coffee that rests on the table.

“You tricked me somehow. Where does someone even get taste buds like yours?”

“Assigned at birth. The Gods blessed me with dazzlin’ features an’ the ability to cook.” He looks incredibly self-satisfied as he takes a sip of coffee.

He won’t say it out loud for fear of it going to his head, but he would definitely have to agree with the dazzling features given to him by the Gods. Shiny teeth, tousled hair, sharp jawline. He could look and look and never get bored, he thinks.

“Ya like my eyes that much, Sunarin?”

He doesn’t feel caught, doesn’t feel trapped. He willingly lets himself fall, hoping that Osamu will be at the bottom of the cliff, ready to catch him.

“Just trying to decide if they’re grey or if they’re brown.” He props his chin up on the bottom of his palm.

Osamu leans forward slightly, arms crossed over on the table in front of him, allowing Suna a better view. Stays like that for a minute before taking his thumb and brushing leftover macaron dust from the corner of his lips. 

“Well?”

“Both. Close them for me?”

Suna’s falling and Osamu’s catching. “Sure.” It’s not fireworks, it’s not a damn breaking, it’s not a detonation. 

It feels like every average kiss out there, the ones where you wake up and kiss them good morning, the ones where you’re late for work but you still make time to kiss them, the ones where you’re saying thank you without speaking, the ones where you’re simply appreciating the fact that they’re in front of you, right there and then.

The vulnerability present in the air is deafening when they pull away. Osamu moves some of Suna’s hair out of his eyes, looks long and hard. He’s paralysed in a good way, if that’s possible.

“Do it again,” he rasps, pushing forward before Suna can argue. He wouldn’t even if he could, aching to have those lips on his one more time, one hand resting under his jaw, thumb stroking his cheekbone gently.

He’ll live in this moment. He’ll build the foundation for a house and place every brick himself if he has to, but he’ll live here, in this place where time hangs, indefinitely suspended.

* * *

He doesn’t care that he’s earlier than usual. He practically runs onto the ice, _The Moldau, No.2_ the only thing he hears as his skates find mismatched grooves. It’s so wondrously unlike him he could die of embarrassment if someone were to point it out, but no one does, and he continues, crisscrossing his ankles.

With his knees bent for stability, he begins on the inside edge, opposite arm in front, then presses inside the circle, turning to a backwards outside edge, the three-turn complete. Now on a right-back outwards edge with his arms in lunge position, a double toe loop awaits him.

His left foot extends back, he plants his toe pick in the ice, behind his right foot. He uses it to help push himself off the ice, turning seven hundred and twenty degrees before landing on his right back outside edge.

He does it again, adding another three hundred and sixty degrees, arms up and out for flair. If he teeters slightly when his skate meets the ice, it doesn’t show. He doesn’t bother looking back on it, just positions himself into a double axel and forgets.

_Lips press into his own, chapped from cold weather and covered in long-lost crumbs. A jaw rests under his hand, warm and relaxed. A knee moves against his, opening up his legs._

Counter clockwise backwards crossovers on the curve, step forward onto the left foot, controlled outside three-turn. Continue to curve the edge around, swing the right leg up and jump around to backwards four times, landing on the right back outside edge, left foot extended behind, the quadruple Salchow over and done with. 

He changes the music, puts on _On Wings of Song_ , remembers the story that goes with it. The one of sorrow, of waiting, before being found, pulled. His back arches and his hair near touches the ground, but he does not fall, caught in the seconds before.

He pulls his leg up taut to his shoulder, careful not to bump his head against his skate, swimming from one end to the other before he lets go, letting it fall slowly and gracefully back down to the floor.

He’ll have to pick up ballet class again if he wants that to hurt less, but for now, he can live with it, work through the stretches on his own. A little pain is okay because it feels fucking fantastic to be able to land jump after jump, but it won’t last.

He doesn’t pop the triple after the quadruple, opts to fall instead even though it burns his legs, but he gets up, rewinds the song, and starts over. He makes a routine out of it, forgets to _care_ that he’s not supposed to be falling in the first place. By then, it’s ten to ten and the ice is telling him to go home.

He thinks he’s safe when he leaves the locker room, skates put away and jacket zipped up to his chin, but he should really know better at this point, especially when a bundle of grey hair bounds over to him.

“Rin-chan, I’m glad I caught you! I wanted to let you know we’re closed on Monday until the afternoon sessions. Scheduling issues.”

“Okay. Thank you, Suga-san.” That’s where he would like the conversation to end, but he’s just not that lucky.

“I saw you skating today,” he continues as Suna’s hand flies to the door. “You weren’t frustrated. You looked good. Better.”

 _Healed_ is what he leaves out.

“Enjoy your anniversary with Sawamura-san. Goodnight.” A curt nod, because he’s still respectful, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. He wants to ride the high for as long as he can without thinking about it.

“You know, there are still scouts coming by, and every so often, one of them stays behind when they see you. We always say that you’re not interested, but it’d be nice if you were to realise you still have a chance.”

Suna doesn’t like it when people care. It makes his skin itch, bugs crawling underneath it, biting into his muscle. If people care, people have expectations, and now he can’t afford to meet them.

“I hit the ceiling. Happens.”

“Should you change your mind, come upstairs and knock on the door. There are about a hundred business cards begging to be contacted.” _Of course_ he’s kept them. He shouldn’t expect anything different.

“I like it here,” he says, halfway through the door. “Nothing ever changes.”

It’s not a full lie, not really, because he doesn’t _not_ like it here, but saying he does like it feels like a bit of an overstatement. What he does feel is nothing in particular of like or dislike, memories he doesn’t need rooting and anchoring him here.

“Rin!” 

He turns skittish at the two new voices in the evening wind. Kenma and Akaashi are smirking at him, two paper bags of food this time, which means both boyfriends aren’t making it home tonight. That, and they probably want to coax the reason for his good mood out of him.

“You’re supposed to be my friends, not gang up on me,” he says, extremely interested to find out what he’s supposed to be eating tonight. He hopes it isn’t macarons.

“You didn’t wait for people to start clearing off before you got on the ice today. Worth cancelling my stream for, I would say,” says Kenma, replying to someone he’s texting. “You’re buying the beer, though.”

“I have to get up at four-thirty tomorrow,” he deadpans.

“Well then apologies in advance,” says Akaashi, slapping him on the back. Suna winces. They’re both evil spirits who have come to disrupt his harmony.

“You guys are the worst. Aren’t figure skaters supposed to be dainty creatures that crave their beauty sleep and drink water and have harsh diets?”

Kenma scoffs. “You spend too much time on your phone.” That’s definitely what you want to hear from the guy who wouldn’t breathe if it wasn’t for the internet.

“He’s right. We’re all sleep-deprived monsters with aching muscles and stomachs simply begging for food, so there’s no getting out of this.”

For a split second, Suna is sure that there is, in fact, a way to get out of this, but he’s dragged into a conversation bearing several complaints about problems with seemingly no solutions, trapped between two guys who are usually quieter than a burglar chattering his ears off.

He thinks, briefly, about Sugawara’s advice. If he takes his words literally, then over a hundred people have seen him fail a simple move and _still_ want him. He decides he can’t take them literally, because that would mean they believe he can be fixed. Restored. _Healed_.

Healing means moving forward, and though he’s made a big deal of never looking back, he’s not sure just how much hold he has over his future. It feels rather like liquid in his hands whenever he tries to grasp it these days.

* * *

The splitting headache he woke up with this morning is just barely gone when seven strikes, and Akaashi and Kenma look far too smug for two out of three people who all had the same amount to drink yesterday. Even Sakusa could tell something was off when he came in, but they were too busy picking through different tracks to mention it. 

For the next two and a half hours, he throws himself into work as he waits for nine-thirty to roll around. Two and a half painful hours of him running errands, calling disgruntled Spaniards, answering emails about works that need translating ASAP. Two and a half hours of dealing with people he doesn’t want to have to deal with all because Onigiri Miya doesn’t open until nine-fucking-thirty.

He walks the well-known pavements he missed out on yesterday, Twisted Sister hellbent on making the headache worse, bag slung over his shoulder, wearing his own jacket, Osamu’s safely tucked away, finally ready to be returned.

The wailing lyrics in his head consume every part of his thoughts, all the way until he takes out his earphones and swings open the door to his favourite — and only, apparently — restaurant, intent on having at least _five_ onigiri today, along with a tea.

“Two of the pickled plum and three of the, uh, salted cod,” he says to the girl at the register. He vaguely recognises her face. “Oh, and a jasmine tea if it’s not too much trouble. I’ll eat in.”

“Sure, that’ll be—Hey, Thursday Boy! What’chya doin’ here on a Friday, hah?” There’s Kansai in her words, light, but impossible to ignore. He looks up from the receipt she’s handed him, shaken that she recognises him far better than he could have predicted.

“Eating a very early lunch,” he says, waving a hand at the onigiri on display. She shakes her head.

“Nah, you eat lunch on Thursdays. If you do come in another time, ya always go for takeout.” Her eyes narrow. “Wha’s in the bag?”

“Nothing.”

This is clearly the wrong thing to say, because her eyes light up like stars, like she knows more than Suna thinks she’s supposed to know.

“Right. Well, Boss is out for now. He should be back before yer done though,” she winks. Now Suna’s eyes narrow as he passes her the change for the food.

“Okay. Thanks.” She smiles a smile that he’s pretty sure is meant to me ‘you’re welcome’, but it comes off as more of a tell-tale smirk that she definitely knows something she’s not telling him.

He takes his regular seat near the back, back to the window, going through more emails as he waits for his food. Usually, he’d be impatient, stomach demanding to be fed right away, but there’s something about Osamu’s absence that takes the edge off his appetite.

And when it does arrive, delivered with one more smirk, he picks at it, like he’s eight again and his mother is insisting he eats a new recipe she’s tried out. He thinks he’d like it better if there were someone next to him to wipe the rice from the corner of his mouth for.

“Three salted cod and ya think one tea is going to be enough? I know I’m a master chef an’ everythin’, but even I can’t subdue the taste of fish.”

A cup is pushed towards him, steam still rising from it, and he can’t stop his lips from curling upwards as a breathy ‘Osamu’ threatens to fall from his tongue. 

They haven’t really talked about yesterday so much, although there wasn’t really when to. Osamu did have to go back to work eventually, and though they were all smiles and giddy thoughts when they broke apart, the high had eventually drifted away. They’re in the clearing now.

“Surprised you weren’t here from the get-go. Aren’t you usually on sight first?”

“Had t’ sort some things out with my other store and investors and whatnot, the works.” Suna hums. “What ‘bout ya? What’chya doin’ here so early, and on a Friday?”

The want to say something cheesy, cliché like ‘I wanted to see you’ crosses his mind, but he opts against it. He’ll move onto the subject smoothly, so as not to startle him.

He shrugs, standing up. “Just figured I’d return something borrowed. Bag’s all yours.”

He knows his way to the bathroom by now, so he figures he doesn’t need to announce where he’s going, just makes sure to pull down on Osamu’s stupid cap a little as he passes to make him laugh.

“Doesn’t look too dam-!” But his voice is cut short and Suna’s brows furrow as he turns back, bangs obstructing his view, but not enough to stop him from freezing when Osamu pulls something else out of the bag, something he’d been sure he’d unpacked earlier, but clearly his hangover still has him in its clutches.

And suddenly this picture he had been painting for weeks is delt a perfect blow, ripping and shredding.

Osamu holds up one white ice-skating shoe by the covered blade, holding it up to the March sun coming in through the window, confused beyond words, and Suna just stands there, something bobbing up and down in his throat but not coming out.

_You’re falling. You’ve jumped and expected to land, but instead you’re falling. You probably can’t even get up, can you? The great Suna Rintarō, struck down in his prime. It’s a shame, really._

“Ya skate?” he finally asks, the confusion not disappearing for a moment.

He’s stuck to the ground. He’s begging his legs to move, to keep going, but they’re not listening to him. They never seem to be listening to him, anymore, not when he needs them to.

“No,” he swallows. “Not mine.”

“They were in yer bag, Sunarin.” Osamu looks like he wants to laugh, but Suna’s trying to get close enough to rip that damn shoe out of his hand even though he can’t actually _move_.

“Rin?”

That’s it. The final straw, the picture pulled out of its frame, the plate dropped on the floor, the house of cards blown over — every metaphor you can think of for something being suddenly destroyed plunges through his mind, because Osamu has just used his first name, only his first name, and by God does that make him realise just how much he’s been lying to a man he really wants to hang onto.

A man who, beyond anything, has made him feel normal. Boring and mundane, but normal. And now, he’s never going to get that back.

He thinks someone else takes over his body when he finally feels himself walking over and plucking the shoe from his grip and grabbing his belongings, wanting to leave. Not wanting to have this conversation. Wanting to desperately be someone other than Suna Rintarō.

“Rin, wha’ tha hell are ya freakin’ ou’ ova?” His accent is heavy, anger seeping into the words of confusion, catching his wrist before he can leave. His eyes burn, not daring to look into those orbs that always mesmerise him.

What _is_ he freaking out over? The fact that Osamu will want to know more? The fact that Osamu won’t speak to him after finding out he’s been lying about what he does? The fact that he’s ashamed to admit, to anyone, that he doesn’t understand why he’s still fucking skating even though he’s given up?

“Look, I—This isn’t— _Fuck_ , this wasn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

“Doesn't seem like ya wanted me to find out at all.” His thumb strokes over his wrist painstakingly slowly. “’s just skatin’, Rin. I don’t see what yer hidin’ a perfectly good hobby for.”

 _That’s_ what he’s freaking out over, he realises. The fact that Osamu was never going to understand the importance of this ‘hobby’ to him, and the fact that he doesn’t even know how to begin explaining it.

So, he won’t explain it. Not now, he thinks. Not ever, if he can help it.

“I’m sorry, Miya. I have to go.” That should be it. He should be able to walk out of the front door and escape whatever nightmare he’s stuck in.

But the door never shuts, and Osamu comes to a stop in front of him. He wants to drop six feet into the ground and die already.

Grey-brown eyes searching his own for _something_. Everything feels too fast. Too forced, almost, like someone’s pushed him out onto the ice before he can stretch, like he’s been asked to perform in utter silence. This feeling is stifling, sweltering, and he just wants it to stop.

“I know yer not one for talkin’, but ‘m real confused right now and could use an explanation.”

They _have_ something now, something more than friendship and lighthearted banter and shared afternoons in the restaurant, but they haven’t _talked_ about it, and Suna worries that they never _will_ after this.

He almost chokes on his words. “I don’t have one.” He turns in the opposite direction, opting for a detour as he breaks into a run.

* * *

Monday morning burns him. No practise to clear his mind, no extra workload that needs his attention, and a red-hot poker brands him over and over, diminishing his will to so much as move.

He does get up eventually, though, at around ten, albeit unwillingly, stomach begging for something other than air.

Two pieces of toast and two eggs with dissolvable vitamin is what he settles for, all of it sliding down his throat and leaving his plate horribly pristine, and he swears he’s never eaten so much so fast in his life. But somehow, miraculously, the feeling of wanting to throw up has died down, and he’s ever so slightly less on edge.

The air he lets in through the windows is not enough, his face flushed as he buries his head between his knees, huddled into the corner of the sofa. It’s not the big breakfast, he knows. It’s the knot that was in his stomach long before two eggs and two pieces of toast, a matching one in the back of his head.

 _Pop_. Pop, pop, pop, over and over until he’s out of knuckles to crack, and then he goes for his phalanges, and when one of them refuses to make a sound he almost cries and tears the damned thing off his hand because why the fuck won’t it _pop_?

But he won’t cry. He hasn’t cried since — well. He doesn’t have an answer for that, because he knows all too well that when he wants to, he screams at himself to get it together and to not so much as think about it. So, he doesn’t.

He doesn’t cry as he takes a much needed shower, cold water doing nothing for his scalding skin. He doesn’t cry as he gets dressed, March air warm today, teasing spring soon. He doesn’t cry as the door to his complex shuts behind him and he starts walking in a completely new and unknown direction.

He doesn’t cry even though there’s no music in his ears to stifle laughter and conversations. He doesn’t cry when flower petals from blooming cherry blossom trees drift in front of him, a little early. He doesn’t cry when he takes a turn to a suburban street, neat little houses in rows aplenty, their front gardens perfect.

A white number ten on an old wooden door painted black pierces the fog around him when he gets to the end of the street. The trees standing tall behind it pull his legs into the ground. With it being impossible that someone would be home at this time on a Monday, he allows himself to stare a little.

The ivy still grows from the right of the front door, all the way up to the roof, covering the pipe and just about touching the windows, green and vibrant after the cold winter months.

Nothing has changed in the years since he moved out of his childhood home and yet everything has. So, he takes a step towards those woods the trees suggest, a footpath long since made in the grass, not that he needs it. He knows exactly where he’s going.

It’s not frozen over anymore; he doesn’t know why he was expecting it to be. Maybe better things happened when it was frozen, but plenty of good things happened when it was just a normal lake too. 

Still, he does not cry. He breathes in the air and he, for the first time in a long time, regrets. Regrets not moving, regrets not keeping in touch, regrets not continuing a career he had a future in, regrets not telling him everything in the first place. Regrets running away because that’s what he’s been doing. There is no use in trying to come up with a synonym that would hurt less, would continue hiding the reality.

The thing he wants right now, is to be, despite his nature, swaddled in blankets and passed a cup of piping hot tea and told that it’s okay that he fucked up, because it happens. But there’s no one who can give that to him, no one except-

His breath catches in his throat.

He didn’t think he could move this fast, but his legs are strong, and he’s running, running, wanting to be out of the woods, heading for his apartment because he needs money and his clothes that still fit him.

Everything is ransacked as he turns the place upside down, having to quickly decide if he needs something or not. He takes his laptop just in case, although he doesn’t know how likely it’ll be that he’s going to do any actual work. All of these things are stuffed into a bag before he’s running again.

The train he needs to board cannot come fast enough. He finds his seat easily enough, squirming unnecessarily, hoping that someone will be there, at the address he asked his sister for, giving no explanation. 

He does his best to keep his mind blank, but it’s not easy. Thoughts push and prod at his walls, goading him, but with his lips tight, he sits, stony-faced. He looks like everyone else on the train, tired and just wanting to get to their destination already, but that’s not the case. 

His knees buckle when he steps out onto the platform. He’s like a new-born horse that’s trying to walk straight away, unfamiliar buildings towering over him, but he makes it outside, breathes in less polluted air.

He hails a cab, passes the address and for the most part the second part of the journey is fine. It’s fine until he’s paying and exiting and standing in front of a gate to a different two-story house, with a canary yellow front door and a white number seven nailed to the wall next to it.

He pushes open the gate and walks up the stone path. He rings the doorbell, popping his other hand’s knuckles now. He hears a confused conversation take place. The door swings open to reveal a woman shorter than him but with his perfectly middle-parted brown hair. 

“Rin?” Shock graces her face, and he doesn’t think he’s ever really seen her like this.

Her hands cup his face, thumbs stroking over cheekbones, not sure if he’s real. “Hi, Mom.”

And by God does he cry.

His mother doesn’t hesitate to pull him inside, shaking and shuddering as much as he is, telling him _it’s going to be okay_ and that _you’re home now_. It feels almost like they’d never left, like he’s coming back from the rink after a particularly nasty fall to miso soup and jelly fruit sticks for dessert once he’s calmed down a little.

No one else is home and he couldn’t be more grateful. The last thing he needs is for Kana or his stepfather to see him like this, ushered onto the sofa, his mother taking off his outer layers and replacing them with an old blanket that smells like pine and melon, tears obstructing his usually perfect eyesight.

When she places a warm cup in his hands, he holds on, a rather choked ‘wait’ coming out of his mouth. She does, crouching in front of him patiently, and he hears her thoughts perfectly. No rush. The cup is near scalding in his hands, but he can’t seem to pay any attention to it.

Slowly, in a hoarse and monotone voice, he says, “Mom, I fucked up.”

“That’s okay. It happens.” Her thumb strokes over the back of his hand. “Tell me about it later?”

He nods because what else can he do? He lets her help him bring the cup to his lips so he can drink a little before placing it out of the way and telling him to lie down. The TV is turned on at a low volume, the shutters are pulled closed, the darkness and hushed quietly lulling him into serenity.

He’s eight years old again, falling asleep straight after coming home, hoping to avoid the angry shouts that come from the bedroom. There are none, and it’s not the same house, but the images in his head are relentless and he tucks it between his knees, curling in on himself.

* * *

The first couple of days are fine, quiet — but then Kana leaves for Italy and his buffer is gone and he knows there is no way he’s avoiding the conversation his mother wants to have with him.

He makes his way to the table for dinner, crawling out of the dark guest bedroom, having slept the afternoon away, phone turned off. It’s what he’s been doing so far, and it’s been working perfectly, but with his stepfather at work for the foreseeable future, the atmosphere downstairs is tense.

The curry is plated up and she’s waiting for him already, hands under her chin and her elbows propped up on the table. She says nothing when he sits down, and he falsely assumes it’s alright to start eating and the food is halfway in his mouth when she gets him.

“You’re going to have to tell me what happened eventually. Preferably _before_ you leave.”

No, he doesn’t, he wants to counter. They did the tea and blankets thing, and he thinks that’s enough. Anything more and he’ll be thrown off the edge.

“Rintarō.” The curry dies on his tongue even though it tastes better than anything he’s ever bought. He should have just stayed home, sucked it up.

“Mom, I—” His voice wavers too much for his liking. He meets her gaze, and he wishes he hadn’t. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

She changes her seat to the one next to him, pulls him into her body even though it aches his back to put his face under her chin, but he needs to be in this position because he needs to feel like someone has him.

“I’m gonna need a little more details, sweetheart,” she whispers into his hair.

She knows he’s gay, has known since about halfway through his second year of high school when he came home one day, dazed after what he thought had been a friend-date with one of the guys in the year above, lips still flushed from where they’d kissed. He’d had an inkling before, but that confirmed things. It didn’t really blossom into anything, but it had been nice to finally get some closure. He told her about a week later.

“I kissed a guy who I’m pretty sure wants nothing to do with me anymore after the way I left things.” The summary is easy; it’s the details that are going to kill him. 

There’s a hand stroking at his back and the tension in his shoulder blades dies down a little. They readjust to a more comfortable angle and his mother is looking him in the eyes, like she’s always done when he wasn’t feeling well, and it gets a little easier to talk.

“What happened?” _Deep breaths, feel it everywhere in your body_.

“He lent me his jacket. And then I took him on a date in thanks and he fed me macarons and we kissed and the next day I went to give the jacket back and my ice skates were in the same bag and I panicked and told him they weren’t mine because I have no idea how to tell him how fucked up everything is because I should have told him a month ago when we first started talking but I didn’t. ‘Cause I was _scared_.”

It’s a lot and most of it sounds like incoherent rambling and he doesn’t even know if he’s making any sense, but this is the most expressive he’s ever been, and his chest feels lighter and he figures he’s doing something right, so he goes on.

“He owns a restaurant and he’s perfect in every way because he doesn’t ask for what I can’t give him and yet I still fucked it up because why couldn’t I tell him I skate every morning for two hours and than an extra half hour in the evening even though I don’t think I’ll ever have a professional career again and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.”

Silence settles around them as she runs her fingers through his hair and scratches at his scalp a little, messing up his hair. She’s taking the time to choose her words carefully, because even though the situation is a first, it’s easy to tell it’s delicate. One wrong move and he’s not going to say anything more, she knows her son well.

“Have you talked to him about it yet? Old as I am, I still think it would help.”

“No. Haven’t touched my phone since I got here. Haven’t looked at any of the messages or voicemails he’s left me.” He’d let the people he needed to let know and left the landline number with Akaashi and took his sick days from work and has just not thought about it.

He hears the sharp intake of breath. “Rin, honey, you can’t avoid this forever, you know? It’s not going to go away on its own.”

He wishes it would. He wishes things could go back to the way they were before he found out someone had opened an onigiri shop in his town and he’d taken a detour to stand right in front of it, admiring not only the interior but the person who designed it.

“Are you sure?” A sympathetic smile. “How do I even tell him?”

“In person would be good. And as much as I love having you home, I think this takes precedence.” She moves some of the hair out of his eyes. “I didn’t question your decision in September, and if this guy is as amazing as you say he is, I think he’ll understand. He might even help you more than you think.”

“This isn’t a movie or a shit—sorry, a _bad_ romance novel. There’s no guarantee that he’s going to get it, or if by some miracle he does that it’s going to work out. I barely get it myself.”

“If I can give birth to two kids that might one day become a household name, I think you can tell him about the thing that gives your life meaning. I’m not saying it's going to be easy, but it does need to be done.

“But aside from that, I’m going to remind you that competition season starts up again in July, and if you’ve been training all this time on your own anyway, I think there are some things you need to sort out in that aspect. Okay?”

It’s a gentle nudge, one he’s felt many times before. He doesn’t like how easily she reads him, but he figures since she’s his mother, he’ll let it go. He thinks this is what it means to be vulnerable.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He pauses. “Can I finish dinner now?”

She laughs lightly. “Course you can. Eat as much as you want.”

* * *

The guest bedroom is left a little emptier than it was before, things he doesn’t need donated, and the others safely packaged and ready to be sent through the mail once he leaves. He’ll need to make some space in the closet, but it should fit.

He’s squeezed thoroughly at the station, much to his dismay, and told to hurry back for Vernal Equinox Day because she hasn’t seen him for long enough now. He makes the promise, seeing as he owes her at least that after everything he’s put her through, and with a kiss that stains red on his cheek, he’s waved off from the platform.

He’d called who he needed to, let them know he was coming back, told Sakusa that he’d let him know when they’d resume their sessions, and somehow through it all, he’d avoided checking the messages from the one number he was pining after most.

Except now he’s got an entire train journey to think about it and he doesn’t think he’ll last, even if he had Kana open them so he wouldn’t have the notifications that there was something there, waiting for him. It's still impossible not to be tempted, not when it’s something like this.

He does manage to restrain himself just about. It’s mentally exhausted him, how fast the days have flown by, and now there’s only so much avoiding he can do. But he’ll be okay. He always has been. He’s a Suna.

It’s darker than he expects it to be at this hour, but the city is still as alive as ever, and if he were more of a smiler, that’s what he’d be doing right now. He settles for wide eyes that take in everything around him instead.

When he reaches his front door, he’s a little jittery, nearly drops his keys, but he pulls himself up, straightens out a little bit even before he’s hunching again. The first thing that hits him when he walks inside is the must after he’d left all the windows closed while he was away, and it’s definitely not pleasant.

He opens every one he can find and then looks around, but he knows that’s not enough, so he takes out the supplies from under the kitchen sink, puts on a pair of gloves, and gets to cleaning.

Dust is wiped without a speck left behind, surface tops are cleaned so hard his arm might fall off, tiles in the bathroom have every groove inspected. His neck hurts and it seems like unnecessary exercise, but the fog encased in his head is starting to lift, so he can’t really complain. It doesn’t mean this is going to become that regular a thing, but he figures he can repeat it every once in a while.

He unpacks and takes a shower, cold water to help him cool down, the tips of his ears still slightly pink. It eases the ache from his muscles, makes him feel a little lighter than he usually does. It also helps him feel better about tonight.

He blow-dries his hair and the steam off the mirror so he can see his reflection, sifting through the cupboard next to the sink, looking for his competition makeup, taking out some concealer for the circles under his eyes and eyeliner to make them pop.

His hand is surprisingly steady as he applies it, his skills not yet lacking, and he’s rather proud of himself. He uses a white pencil on his waterline to contrast the black against his eyelid, and when he’s done, he leans back, admiring. He’s glad he let his sister experiment as she grew older.

**Suna**

**_Ice rink at nine-thirty tonight_ **

**_I'll be there_ **

He doesn’t glance at any of the other messages, just sends his own and turns his notifications off, sighing. It wasn’t easy to convince Sugawara to close a little earlier (at least not without being honest) so it’d be empty, but he’s glad he did.

Because he owes an apology, and this is the only place he feels safe enough to give it in.

* * *

He receives two firm soundless grips of his shoulders from Kenma and Akaashi before they leave, and he’s sure his stomach does a backflip at that point. He doesn’t have nerves of steel, sure, but he thought he’d be at least a little bit more composed.

He shakes it off, goes for the counter clockwise backwards crossovers he knows so well when the blades under his feet step onto already grooved out ice.

It’s rather like it is in the morning, the emptiness of an abandoned hall, thick ice under his feet freezing him to the bone. He’s never really felt the cold like this before, and it’s strange. He’s been alone here so many times, so why is he shaking like crazy?

Doesn’t matter, he breathes, Vivaldi’s _Autumn_ charming his ears. He continues his backwards crisscross movements, tilting his head back and cursing out anything in his head. He doesn’t need worry right now.

Begin with a right forward inside three-turn, left arm in front when it’s done, step onto the left foot and the arm pushes out from the body, all the way to the left side. At the same time, step onto the spinning foot, bending over at the waist, lifting the free leg straight and high, a basic spiral position.

Keep the weight on the front half of the blade and the body over it. Rotations made, allow the body to straighten and the foot to drop, go into a one-foot spin and exit it on a right back outside edge.

He approaches from the left forward outside edge of the skate, kicking through with his free leg, three and a half revolutions, then landing on the right back outside edge of the skate.

He spins, body low to the ground, his fingers tracing the patterns in the not yet smoothed down floor, completed triple axel disappearing like it had never happened in the first place. Picks himself back up and continues, dancing a waltz to the orchestra.

He doesn’t land a triple after a quadruple, pops it in the last second, but he isn’t surprised, certainly didn’t think it was going to happen when his heart is caught in a boxing match with itself in his chest. He presses his palms flat against his thighs, exhausted, and pulls his head up, searching for the second body that’s made its way onto the ice with him.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he rasps.

“Wasn’t gonna, at first. But I figured I might get an explanation.” He’s gripping the railing tight. “Am I?”

He slides a little closer, eyes gentle and welcoming, and he holds out a hand. _I trust you. Can you trust me?_ The hand is taken, and he pulls him away from the railing, close to the centre of the ice.

“Sorry for running away. It’s something I tend to do a lot, apparently, and I hate running. But I got scared, and that _doesn’t_ happen a lot. So I freaked,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “And that was shitty of me.”

“Suna—”

“I’ve lived here since I was born. I’ve been skating since I was six years old. I’ve won gold more times than I can keep track of. Nothing ever really changed. And then something did, and I wasn’t really expecting it.”

He lets go of his hands and hikes up his left trouser leg — the flared ones today — showcasing his calf and the not-so-clean cut that rests there, perfectly recognisable, even to someone who doesn’t skate.

“Quadruple into a triple toe loop during the Qualifiers. I snagged my leg on my skate. And for the first time in a long time, I lost. And I didn’t know how to live with that. I still don’t, not really.

“I come here every morning at five, stay two hours, and then come back in the evening for an extra half hour even though I know I’m not going to ever skate professionally again,” Suna finishes calmly. “But it’s okay. I got used to the idea a long time ago. I just need the routine.”

The silence stretches out for miles and he wants to run across its whole length to find the place where it stops. He opts to look down at his bare leg instead, at the awful scar that graces it, muscles tense and rigid, waiting.

“Don’t make me call ya a liar, Sunarin,” is the soft reply. He almost misses it.

Almost. “What?”

* * *

He calls, he texts, he waits to catch him in the evening. He gets nothing. Nothing except a jacket that smells like him and a half-eaten box of macarons.

If he didn’t have a restaurant to take up his time of day, he thinks he’d go insane with all the emotions inside of him. He doesn’t want to miss him like this, feeling like after all, he doesn’t really know anything at all. That much was made clear to him.

Did he ask for too much? He hadn’t meant to press, maybe he should have stopped them from crossing the line from flirting to _I want you_. Because they had chosen each other, hadn’t they? Or was that just something he’d dreamt up?

He drops his keys into the bowl by the apartment door, looking at the mess he’d left in the kitchen earlier this morning. Well, maybe before this morning. It had started piling up gradually, the things with longer shelf life never making it off the countertop.

The last call he’d let go to voicemail was Tuesday morning. There doesn’t seem to be a point in leaving anymore. It’s clear Suna doesn’t want to talk to him, so he’ll give him the space he needs.

He turns on the water in the shower, lets his skin turn red with how hot it is, washing off the sweat of the kitchen off, leaning against the tiles, hair matting to his head. It shouldn’t still be on his mind, but it is, and he’s a fool for it.

_“I know yer not one for talkin’, but ‘m real confused right now and could use an explanation.”_

_They have something now, something more than friendship and light-hearted banter and shared afternoons in the restaurant, but they haven’t talked about it, and he’s worried that they never will after this — whatever_ this _is._

 _He can just about hear Suna choking on his words. “I don’t have one.” He turns in the opposite direction, breaking out into a run_.

_His cap feels too tight around his head. His apron digs into his waist. He’s left staring at a shadow, one he was so close with just seconds ago, and a single shoe managed to turn all that upside down, and all he wants to know is why._

He turns off the shower abruptly, breathing heavily, fingertips gripping at slippery tile that can barely hold him up. He composes himself and steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist.

When he wipes the fog from the mirror, takes a look at the dark circles under his eyes. Clearly, he hasn’t been sleeping as well as he ought to. He leans against the sink, drops of water falling down, not stained with dye like they used to be. He almost misses it.

The buzz of a phone stops him from reminiscing about his high school self and he wanders back to where he left his coat, taking it out, grimace placing itself on his face when he sees who’s calling.

“This better be good, ‘Tsumu.” He hears the offended howl on the other end and already knows it isn’t.

“Ya know how much I love ya? Like so, so much?”

“No. Now get t’ the point.” A whine. “ _‘Tsumu._ ”

“Fine, fine! IkindaneedyatohostapartyfortheteambecauseyamakethebestfoodandIswearI’llpayyabackanothertime.”

Osamu, much to his brother’s clear obliviousness, is fluent in twin talk, even when it’s sped up to the speed of sound, so he hears the very clear message of: _I kinda need ya to host a party for the team because ya make the best food and I swear I’ll pay ya back another time_. He doesn’t buy the fact that he’s going to pay him back for a second.

He sighs. “Fine. Just text me the details later, ‘kay? I got some shit t’ do.”

“Love ya, ‘Samu! Omi loves ya too, and Milo obviously, but tha’s ‘cause ya always feed ‘im extra when we’re not lookin’.” Excuses, excuses.

“Oh, like the both of ya don’t do that too when one of ya’s distracted. I’ve witnessed it first-hand.”

“Yeah, yeah, yer full of shit. Now go do what ya need t’ do and stop botherin’ me.” Osamu is about to throw his phone out of the window with Atsumu’s head as the intended target.

“Ya were the one who called _me!_ ”

“Did I mention I love ya?”

“Goodbye, ‘Tsumu.” And then he stops. “Hey, ‘Tsumu?”

It’s a rare tone he uses, one where he’s a little quieter than normal, trying to let his brother know that he wants to bring up a subject that could do without his boisterous personality. He’s still loud, still obnoxious, but he’s more careful with his answers.

“What do you need?”

He swallows. “When ya and Kiyoomi got t’gether, how’d he tell ya ‘bout his skatin’?”

“Oh, that. That was so long ago, jheez, I can barely remember. I remember bein’ mad at ‘im for always sneakin’ off and then snappin’ when he wouldn’t tell me. Didn’t speak to me for days after.

“I just let ‘im have his time. Ya know that along with his mysophobia I didn’ wanna push. I knew he’d come back if I was still what he wanted. Why d’ya ask?”

“Just... wonderin’,” he hums, and Atsumu knows his brother better than anyone, so he doesn’t tease. Or he doesn’t tease as much as he wants to.

“Okay, well, when yer done wonderin’, don’t forget t’ _do_. I’ll send the details soon. Love ya, shithead.” He snorts.

“Thanks, ‘Tsumu. Can’t wait t’ tell Ma ya called me a shithead.”

He scoffs at his phone when the call abruptly ends, head a little lighter despite his brother’s whining and screeches, and almost laughs before he takes a look at the unread message, thinking he’s already texted him the details.

**Rin**

**_Ice rink at nine-thirty tonight_ **

**_I'll be there_ **

He’s sure he’s fallen asleep in the shower or something, the last ten minutes a hallucination, but he knows better than that. He knows he’s staring at something very real, and he’s just not sure if he’s ready for it.

An argument might be bursting inside him, but the decision was made as soon as he opened the message. _The crumbs on his lips. His knee knocking open his leg. A hand on his jaw._ He takes a long, hard look at the mess in the kitchen, fingers encasing his keys, and decides that tonight isn’t the time to deal with it.

* * *

Osamu’s feet are shaky, he feels like a deer on ice, but he takes those couple steps to Suna, places a hand under his jaw, and he’s glad Suna’s posture is shit because it gives him the chance to tilt his head up.

His thumb runs across cracked lips, rosy from the atmosphere much like his cheeks. “Nah, ya didn’t get used to it. Ya jus’ stopped fightin’.”

“Osamu—”

“I know yer afraid of losin’, that’s why I let ya set the pace when we first met, ‘cause I could see ya weren’t one t’ rush, but I don't buy it. I don’t buy ya acceptin’ yer fate ‘cause it’s _not_ yer fate. I just saw ya do some of the craziest shit on an injured leg so sorry if I don’t believe tha’ yer not capable of winnin’ gold again.

“I get why ya ran. It’s not easy to tell someone all this shit, ‘specially not someone ya met a month ago, but ’m glad ya did. ‘Cause I know ya better now. And tha’s all I really want.”

He takes a breath and goes on.

“Ever since I saw ya starin’ into m’ shop that February mornin’, I thought I was dreamin’, ‘cause I didn’t think a guy as pretty as ya existed. And yer fucking _voice_ when ya spoke, I was in heaven, and then I saw yer eyes. They were lookin’ into mine and I felt like a highschooler, grinnin’ and trynna talk t’ ya forever. Took everythin’ not to kiss ya on the spot.

“Ya made me look forward t’ Thursdays. I got t’ see ya jealous. I got t’ see ya eatin’ the food I made with ya in my mind. I got t’ give ya my jacket. I got t’ feed ya macarons. I got t’ kiss ya and kiss ya and I still wanna kiss ya.”

Suna’s hand comes up over the one on his jaw. “So _kiss me_.”

He tastes ice first, the kind that melts the second you touch it, and then the salt from tears he hadn’t even recognised were falling, but he leans into it. Hands cold as winter find their way onto his back under his shirt, and his own have wandered off, one on Suna’s hip and the other at the back of his head.

It’s so effortlessly sweet, better than the first time they did this, and maybe that’s because of the lack of secrets between them, but Osamu doesn’t care. Because if this is what kissing Rin tastes like, he thinks he never wants to eat real food again.

His legs move of his own accord, wanting him closer, but he’s no figure skater and the ice is unfamiliar to him, so it should come as no surprise that he loses his balance and pulls Rin down with him.

He looks up at those wide green eyes, the makeup he’s wearing somehow making him even more beautiful, and he thinks he’ll die if he can never see those eyes again. He wipes at his wet cheeks, not even thinking about his own, and they stay like that, close.

“‘Samu, my hands are really fucking cold,” says Rin, breathing heavily, lips pink and parted, a cloud of air coming out.

They sit up, legs still tangled, skates weighing them down, but he doesn’t care. He takes his hands in his, his callouses from cooking rubbing against smooth skin that’s red from falling.

“Thank ya. For comin’ back.” Their foreheads bump gently.

“Wanted to. Felt right.” _I knew he’d come back if I was still what he wanted_. He’s been jealous of Atsumu more than once in his life, but that’s the furthest thing he could be right now.

There’s this warmth in his chest with the say Rin says his name, with the way his hands go back up his shirt, with the way his eyes, defined with charcoal, stare into him, letting him know how heavy with honesty his words are.

“For what I said on Friday — I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve pushed ya. We weren’t there yet.”

“It’s fine. We’re there now, right?”

A nod of affirmation. “We’re there now.”

* * *

Rin’s arms are tight around his middle as he slows down in front of the apartment complex, his chin hooked on his shoulder, and he’s sure that if he wasn’t wearing a helmet that gets in the way, he’d be doing a lot more.

They get off, Osamu parking it before they take off their helmets so they can shake their hair free from the shape it’s in now. Rin takes his fingers and goes through Osamu’s tangles, just like he’s wanted to do for so long now.

“I went on a cleaning frenzy today,” he murmurs, standing between Osamu’s legs. “You should have seen it. It felt like I was possessed by one of my friends — he hates germs.”

Osamu has an inkling, but he’s not going to bring it up now, because then his brother will inevitably get brought up, and he really doesn’t need that when there’s a guy this hot in front of him, telling him about his apartment.

“Yeah? Ya expectin’ company or somethin’?”

He smiles with one corner of his lips. “Not really. But I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Rin takes him by the hand and pulls him up, not letting go as he enters the key code, opens the door, walks up the stairs, fiddles with his keys and pushes his front door. He lets go only to take his jacket off, and then takes Osamu’s from him, hanging them both up.

He leaves him by the sofa, taking two beers from the fridge, opening them, and passing him one. He takes a sip himself, but his eyes never tear away from him, and he’s still parched as he sets the drink down, and the thought only becomes more prominent as Osamu’s hand settles on his thigh, head leaning forward.

He leans with him, presses their lips together, desperate. His fingers tangle in hair and one of his legs shifts so it’s over Osamu’s, hot and feverish and wanting. It feels all kinds of right.

When Osamu starts to stand up, his legs wrap around his waist out of instinct, and those muscles hidden under grey t-shirts prove to be more than for show, lifting him up easily. “Door on the right,” he says, and then they’re kissing again.

He registers the bed behind him, unwraps his legs, and pulls him after him so they’re both kneeling on the bed, knees clashing. He lifts Osamu’s shirt off, needing it gone, out of the way, and presses his lips to his collarbone, something rather like instinct wanting to mark.

It takes some manoeuvring, and his own shirt comes off in the process, but Osamu is lying on his back, hands tangled in Rin’s hair while he trails downwards, fingers hooked on his waistbands, tugging, wanting it off, off, off. The hands in his hair move to undo the button of the jeans he changed into earlier before those too are tugged off, leaving him bare.

He presses open-mouthed kisses to Osamu’s hip bones, presses his nose to his thighs, presses the pads of his fingers to the skin under his knees.

“Rin, fuck, touch me,” he breathes, rising from the bedding slightly from the pressure.

“I am touching you,” he counters, movements still light, feathery. “Unless you had something specific in mind?”

Bastard, knows exactly what he’s doing. But as much as Osamu is a patient man, he’s not that patient, and so he pulls him back up, kisses him drunk, pushes for what he wants.

“I’m naked in yer bed. How long ‘til ya fuck me?” He stares into eyes smudged with eyeliner that twinkle, crinkled at the corners.

He pulls back, and for a second, he thinks that he’s regretting what they’ve already done, but then he reaches out and takes out a bottle from the drawer in the bedside table, but there’s no time to dwell on it because Rin’s kissing him again, hard and hungry.

It’s not until his hand moves out from under his knee and he hears the bottle uncapping that Rin asks, “Can I?”

“Ya bet- _ter_ ,” he groans, head tilting back when he feels one finger moving in, leaving his neck exposed to Rin’s lips. It’s been a while since his last hook-up, and the sensation takes a while to get used to, but he’s given the time before another finger follows.

It’s slow but it’s thought out — there’s no use in rushing this, even if it’s taken them longer than they would have liked. A good rhythm settles, a push and pull that’s easy to take, and take it he does, taking it until a third and final finger has him gasping, Rin’s lips still working at his neck in an effort to distract him.

It almost works, until his fingers curl and hit right where he needs them to, and he _whines_ , begging for more with the push of his hips onto Rin’s hand. His back is arched, but it’s not enough, he needs more.

“Rin—”

“Condoms in the drawer next to you. Pass one over,” is the reply, his teeth grazing over his nipple and Osamu blindly sticks his hand in the drawer until he feels out the familiar plastic and unceremoniously throws it into Rin’s face. “Thanks.”

“Just fuck me, ya heathen,” he seethes, eyes snapping down, glaring at the smirk on his face.

Rin obliges, opening the wrapper with his teeth ever so slowly, before sliding it over himself and then his face is right above Osamu’s again, one of his hands holding his leg up so he has more room to manoeuvre as he presses forward gently.

His cheeks and neck are flushed pink, the marks all over his chest and collarbone are going to be a delight to look at tomorrow, and he really wishes he could look at him like this forever.

“You okay?”

“If ya don’t start movin’ in the next five seconds, I won’t be.” 

Rin chuckles in his ear, low and gentle. “I got you.”

He moves his hips back before pushing forward again, hand still keeping Osamu’s leg up while the other intertwines their fingers, placing it on the pillow, kissing him and murmuring words of reassurance at the same time as he begins moving at a steady pace.

He didn’t think he’d ever get him under him like this, moaning at the same time as he does, curse words leaving him when they leave him too, their noses constantly bumping whenever they try and kiss. It’s so new, so fresh, but it feels like they’ve known each other for years, like all of this is second nature.

Blood is rushing through his head as Osamu’s grip on his hand tightens, his pelvis driving all the way forward as he quickens, and he knows better than to tease him like this, so he starts stroking him, revelling in the strained groan that follows.

“It’s—Been a while—Dunno if I can— _Shit_ —Dunno if I can hold out tha’ long.”

“Don’t care. Pretty as you look, I’d argue you look better— _fuck_ —when you come,” retorts Rin with a particularly brutal snap of his hips, stroke of his hand.

It doesn’t take long after that, the both of them still on a high from all the emotions the evening has brought about, and after Rin hits his prostate one too many times in a row, he’s shouting, back arching, and Rin isn’t talking anymore, chasing his own finish, and then he’s falling, falling, and Osamu is catching.

They could stay like that the entire night, but it’s not going to be a nice thing to wake up to, so carefully as he can, he pulls out, Osamu wincing only slightly, and heads to the bathroom to discard the condom and for a washcloth for the both of them. He figures they can shower in the morning, when their heads are clearer, and their limbs are lighter.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now, ‘Samu,” he whispers as he wipes his stomach clean. 

“Mm, s’fine, I don’t got work tomorrow. Mornin’ off,” he yawns. “Please don’t tell me yer going to the rink early tomorrow.”

Rin settles back down in bed, drawn into Osamu’s body immediately, and he yields happily, swinging a leg over his hips and pulling him closer, hands in his hair, scratching gently with his nails.

“Figured it would be better to take one more day off. I didn’t know how tonight was gonna go and there’s still some stuff I need to take care of, so one more day couldn’t hurt.”

“Good. Ya have a lot of time to make up for,” he says into his neck. Rin smiles freely, knowing he can’t see him, not yet ready for him to see how much of a sap he is. There’s a time and a place for that, and usually it’s after his third beer going onto fourth when he’s all touchy-feely, low on self-restraint.

Their bodies move so Rin can drape half of his body over Osamu’s. “Fine by me.”

* * *

At first, he thinks he’s woken up to the smell of burnt toast. Upon closer inspection with his nose, he realises that it is not burnt toast, but rather something freshly baked, and it wakes him up into a state of confusion as he reaches out, finding the other half of the bed empty.

Settling back into his old routine is not going to be easy, especially since he isn’t sure how Osamu fits into it just yet, but he figures that’s a problem for future him. Right now, he’s more than happy to pull a blanket around himself and trudge into the kitchen, bangs in front of his eyes obscuring his vision.

It’s quite a sight he’s met with. He really wasn’t expecting to have an entire bakery workshop happening in his kitchen, but it is, and Osamu looks well and truly at home, an old apron Rin didn’t even know he had tied firmly behind his back.

“Did you—Did you _bake bread_?”

Osamu shrugs. “Nothing in the fridge.”

Doesn’t say anything else, just continues checking in with the rice cooker, something else in the process of being heated up on the stove. He’s really not sure what he did to deserve this, and he definitely doesn’t know where Osamu got all this food.

He comes up behind him and rests his chin on his shoulder, intent on looking at what he’s doing, only to get a spoonful of rice stuffed into his mouth before he can stop it.

“How’s it?” is the question.

“‘s good.” He swallows. “Where did you get all this?”

“There’s this thing called a supermarket. Ya should try it sometime,” he says, moving away and turning down the heat on what looks like miso soup on the stove, Rin’s chin unhooked.

He takes a good look at the man who has made himself a home in his kitchen, takes it all in and tightens the blanket around his body, leaning back against the fridge. It’s a nice view, and he wouldn’t mind waking up to it more often, but there’s an itch that he still needs to scratch.

“Hey, ‘Samu — What are we, now?” Brown-grey eyes, just what he’s expecting. “We just didn’t really, uh, mention it yesterday. And I’m not exactly the best at doing things without a plan.”

He might turn back to what he’s doing, but he knows he’s thinking about it. So, he waits, lets the cogs in his brain turn, until he puts down the spoon he’s holding and makes his way over, resting his chin in the palm of his hand and looking up.

“How does being boyfriends sound?”

Rin wrinkles his nose. “Like we’re in high school. But I like it.”

“Yeah?” says Osamu, leaning down and pressing their lips together, and Rin can taste the dashi stock even as he pulls away, licking his lips in delight afterwards.

“Yeah. Anything sounds good with you.” He can let himself be a little bit of a sap.

“Who are ya and what’ve ya done with my boyfriend?” He kisses him again, giddy. “Will ya chop some scallions for me?”

“Sure, _boyfriend_ ,” he says, whipping the blanket at his ass as he takes it off, knife in his hand before Osamu can retaliate. Sure, he’s no head chef, but it’s easy enough a task and if it means he gets fed spoons of miso and rice before breakfast actually starts, he is definitely not going to say no.

They plate up not long later, sitting down on the sofa so Osamu can watch a cooking programme he claims he cannot miss another episode of, and Rin is fine like that, balancing his food in his lap, legs on top of Osamu’s, watching him yell at the contestants and judges equally (well, the judges may get the brunt of it).

He’d love to fall asleep on a stomach full of food, but there’s a restaurant that needs to be opened and emails that need to be answered, and even if the slow makeout session they’ve got going is very easy to lose himself in, they do peel away eventually, Rin finally taking that shower he was supposed to. He’s surprised he hasn’t been pushed away yet on account of ‘ya stink’.

He even sees him out the door although his wet hair is dripping everywhere on the floor, asking him to call if he needs anything. He has to promise the same thing in return, and he couldn’t be more glad to do it.

It’s not as quiet when he leaves as he thought it would be. Sure, Iron Maiden is playing in the background and his appliances make an odd noise from time to time like always, but it’s a different kind of loud. The kind that comes not from things, but from people, their presence lingering in the air along with the smell of breakfast.

So, yeah, Osamu went back to work, but if you were to ask Rin, he’d simply tell you that Osamu is sitting in front of him, going over new recipes to try out when he’s supposed to be resting, pushing food across the table to make sure he eats.

Maybe Osamu doesn’t have to fit into his current routine. A new one is definitely overdue and as his pencil taps against an open notebook, he glances over at his phone and sucks in a breath.

The dial tone almost has him quitting, but he persists, the tempo of the tap of the pencil increasing until click.

“Rin-chan! Are you coming in tomorrow morning?”

“Uh, yeah, I—Actually I’m calling about something else, Suga-san. You mentioned some cards in the office waiting for me?”

* * *

He’s confused, to say the least. Anyone else might think that their eyes are playing tricks on them and that the late hour is definitely an influence, but there’s no missing the fact that Osamu has gone and dyed his hair blond like some utter _imbecile_.

Rin walks up and pulls his face in front of him, ignoring his screeches, tugging at the strands. “What the hell kind of _demon_ possessed you to dye your hair the colour of healthy piss?”

“Healthy piss? I’ll have ya know, this is particular colour is called _Honeysuckle_ , and just who da ya think ya are, tuggin’ at my hair, piece of _shit—_ ”

“Piece of shit? You made me breakfast this morning, and now that you’ve gone and dyed your hair, I’m a piece of shit?” He tugs harder. “What the fuck?”

“Oi, Rin. Hands off the boyfriend.” His fingers leave the hair, glancing over at Kiyoomi with his mask on, looking _very_ annoyed. He looks back at said boyfriend, who’s muttering a string of ‘Omi’s, sniffing at having his hair pulled at and then he takes said boyfriend by the chin and looks into his eyes.

Not a hint of grey.

“You’re not Osamu. What the—” _He's not worth mentionin’ half the time so I don’t bother._ “Piece of shit! Osamu Miya is getting his ass kicked tonight.”

“I was jus’ in the bathroom, why am I gettin’ my ass kicked?” The glare he receives from Kiyoomi, Atsumu and Rin should be enough to let him know, but the guy is grinning like he knew this was going to happen, damn bastard, so clearly whatever threats they have rolled up are not going to work.

Rin points at the pisshead behind him with a thumb. “Were you ever going to tell me this brother of yours is your twin?”

A lot of stories from Osamu’s childhood are starting to make a lot more sense now, especially the one where they swapped classes for about half a day before they got sent to the principal. How did it take him actually meeting them both at the same time to put shit together?

“Figured ya’d find out eventually. Do I hafta beg yer forgiveness now?” he asks, placing both hands on his waist and pulling him in close.

“Kiki looked like he was about to commit attempted murder, so yeah,” sighs Rin, closing the distance, letting himself be kissed to the point where splotches of white appear behind his eyes as he adjusts to the darkness.

“Omi you let him call you Kiki?!”

“No, so don’t even think about it or I’ll punch you in the face, Atsu,” deadpans Kiyoomi. “You’re next, Rin. Can we get going? Keiji and Kenma are already waiting and I don’t think they’re going to survive long with both Kuroo and Bokuto.”

“They’ve told us to call them by their first names, _Kiki_ ,” says Rin, pulling away. “And yeah, let’s go. I’m very excited to learn more about this twin thing.” He waves his finger between the two Miyas.

“I’m sure Kiyo will be more than happy to talk shit about us all night. Get about three shots of tequila in ‘im an’ he’ll tell ya anythin’,” whispers Osamu as they walk away from the rink, heading to the restaurant they all agreed to meet at, their schedules all lined up for once.

It did mean the trio had to cut practise early, which the coaches weren’t ecstatic about, but a night off every once in a while is good for them. Rin had some things to sort out in the office above the rink anyway, so Kiyoomi said he’d wait for him, needing to go through some things off his own.

Rin looks down at where his and Osamu’s hands are linked, swaying slightly as they walk, and strokes his thumb over a burn scar. It’s crescent shaped, pretty despite the pain it was put there by. He wants to kiss it.

“Funny, isn’t it? How many things actually were keeping us together even when we didn’t know each other?”

“There’s a story about tha’, isn’t there? Yellow string or somethin’?”

“Red string of fate. Didn’t think you were one for soulmate stories.” He strokes over the crescent again. “Do you think they’re real?”

“No idea. But if ya were my soulmate, I can’t say I’d be angry ‘bout it. Might even pull on the string to keep ya close,” he says, bumping into Rin’s shoulder lightly as he does, and that lets a soft laugh escape from Rin’s throat.

“You wouldn’t have to. I’d chase the other end whether you were pulling on it or not.” He rests his head on his shoulder, even if he’s taller, even if it’ll make his posture even worse.

He looks at Kiyoomi and Atsumu walking on ahead, jabbering about something, and he’s not sure which one of them is the bigger idiot in love. Kiyoomi, probably. It makes the most sense.

“They make quite the pair, huh?”

Rin hums in agreement. “We’re better. Like, times a thousand.”

“Don’t bring up the better couple talk. Bokkun and Keiji will outrun us by a mile.” Rin smiles into his turtleneck.

He’s fine with them outrunning the two of them. If anything, he’s happier to be off the track, sitting under a willow tree, resting on Osamu’s stomach as the two of them share various foods, guessing what they’re eating.

The bar is already loud when they walk in, Kōtarō and Tetsurō locked in an arm wrestle, Keiji’s head stuck in a book so he doesn’t have to watch and Kenma is happily locked onto a game on his Switch, not even trying to comprehend how they ended up in this situation _again_.

“Tsum-Tsum! Myaa-sam! Omi! Rin-Rin!” With a show of force that leaves Tetsurō winded at the slam of his arm against the table, Kōtarō stands up, waving them over. Rin and Osamu share a knowing look.

 _We’re in for a long night_.

It’s an incredibly accurate statement, the both of them ushered to sit down, two shots of cheap vodka already waiting, along with hundreds of questions because _everyone_ needs to know _everything_ about the new couple joining the group.

How did you meet? (On the street in front of the restaurant.) How long have you been seeing each other? (It’s been official since this morning.) Does it feel weird dating a twin? (This one is aimed at both Kiyoomi and Rin, to which the answer is the same: a shrug of the shoulders. (It’s not the answer the group was looking for.))

It’s quite the mix-up of a group, from onlooking strangers. Volleyball players, ice skaters, a guy tasked in sports promotion, a few weird hairstyles that seem impossible to maintain, soft touches shared that could be an implication of something more between them.

It is a weird group, they’re more than aware of it, but it makes for great entertainment when they’re all buzzed and swapping the most embarrassing stories they can muster in their hazy state.

“Hey! Ya weren’t s’pposed t’ tell anyone tha’!” shouts Atsumu, reaching across the table to strangle Osamu, stopped only by Kōtarō’s and Kiyoomi’s grip on his torso and shoulders. He’d downed a second scotch when no one was looking and gotten very much protective and aggressive over the course of the evening.

Still, they’re in the clear so long as Kiyoomi doesn’t up his own intake and become very possessive and handsy. Osamu’s been witness to it one too many times, and after a certain New Years incident, he doesn’t want a repeat of the image that scarred his eyes forever.

“Tell anyone what? That ya got all flustered and turned int’ a tomato when ya and Kita-san got caught under mistletoe and kissed after houndin’ from the team? Is that what I’m not supposed t’ tell anyone?”

It earns a laugh around the whole table and present-Atsumu turns as red as story-Atsumu did, swinging a wild punch that does not land despite his hopes. Rin is tucked happily into Osamu’s side watching it all go down like he didn’t instigate it by asking who Atsumu’s gay awakening was.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing, Kuro. Didn’t you confess to your old captain before he graduated that you had a crush on him?” says Kenma, playing with the beer in front of him, very smug. It’s clear he’s been waiting to drop this one for a while.

“If you’d joined the team with me you would have understood,” he huffs, sticking his nose in his drink, like Kenma would have ever considered the possibility of getting hit in the face by stray volleyballs over skating.

“Seems all old captains had a thing for _their_ old captains.” Kōtarō freezes beside Keiji and the whole table tries not to splutter from laughter. A couple more months and Osamu’s going to find out his boyfriend is the quiet but deadly type too.

Rin startles a little bit but keeps it under control. Months? Where did that come from?

He looks at Osamu, who’s laughing while they all compare captains, and wonders what it would be like to wake up next to that messy hair on a summer morning, an autumn afternoon, Christmas Day. He’d probably be able to nestle into it, take in the smell of his shampoo, wonder if they were going to have tea or coffee with breakfast.

“Hey? Ya okay?” He blinks and finds he’s not the only one staring anymore. He reaches for Osamu’s hand and links their fingers before smiling softly.

“More than okay.” Osamu brushes Rin’s hair out of his eyes. “Enjoying the company, the drinks. Enjoying being here with you.”

Osamu leans in close, lips just a whisper away. “Sap.”

“Mm, your fault,” he says, kissing him deeply, tasting the black Russian through the cracks of skin. It’s unlike his usual saltiness, but it’s not bad. He could die happy like this.

He could die happily like this until he hears the shutter of a camera and a harsh, complaining whisper, and the two of them look over at the group that is going to be laughing about that photo for weeks to come, months even.

 _But that’s okay_. Osamu’s fingers tighten around his. _I have plenty of months to give_.

* * *

It’s hot, burning him, but by God does he enjoy it. This blazing heat that takes him whole, paints him red, as he takes it in his stride, readjusting to the freshly cleaned ice. It’s strange, almost not to have grooves to glide over, but it’s just as well, because it’ll be easier for him now.

No one apart from his new coach has heard the music for his free programme and he’s glad for it, because it means he gets to catch Osamu’s eyes in the crowd as the piano trickles in, watching his jaw go slack and Rin takes those steps backwards, hands running over his body slowly before the tempo picks up.

He won’t have time for the whole song, but they’ve managed to make it cut in a perfect moment, so there’s no need to worry about that. No, what matters is Osamu watches every second of this.

It would be hard not to, considering what he looks like right now. Green dew drop earrings with a matching red on of a gold chain, eyes sharp and winged, those emeralds of his shining bright through his first loop. And if that wasn’t enough, he’s decided to carry on the bedazzled theme all the way to his hips.

With a sheer shirt (which he’s not even sure is legal) made of a plunging neckline, billowing sleeves that go from pink at his wrists to white until the navy band that rests against his waist, he looks sinful, mesmerising, and the black, tight and flared pants adorned with small multi-coloured jewels catch every light as he turns, listening out carefully for the strings of the violin.

He’s the _prima_ , centre stage, performing perfectly. Every push, every slide, every turn is calculated before he makes it, but thought about only once he’s off the ice. There’s no time to doubt yourself when you have to go forward and looking back will cost him something more than time.

It almost feels like nothing’s changed — he moves with fire like always, but this time he’s moving with a vengeance. He proves it if anything when there’s a gasp at his split Lutz. It’s rare, he knows, and he _revels_ in it. He revels in the fact that here, of all places, with his new face, is where he attempts it.

He has three minutes and thirty-three seconds to prove himself, and he’s not going to waste any of that precious time on something as simple as a double axel and nothing to go with it.

So he moves like a ballerina would performing Swan Lake. A cliché comparison, he’s well aware, but considering it’s the most well-known ballet of all time, he’s not shy about it. He’ll gladly compare himself to people who always give their all because they know that everyone who’s watching is waiting to pounce on a single mistake. So, he won’t make one.

 _On Wings of Song_ has been left behind, but it still floats in his mind as he skims the floor on one knee before getting up and pulling that leg up to his head and spinning five times round.

He’s heard someone say before that skater’s hearts are as fragile as glass, and he can’t say he disagrees. But their bodies — their bodies are an enigma; one you could spend years unravelling and still not understanding their true strength. And though you’re not really allowed to fly during a routine, he feels like he is anyway, muscles tight and firm, propelling him into a move he knows all too well.

He knows the ice, and the ice knows him. It moves him like waves of the ocean push shells to land, a spread eagle into a triple axel propelling him forward, pushing him to a quadruple toe loop into a triple toe loop and he’s landing, he’s landing— 

_You’re there already, so quit your whining and keep going._

He drops low again, skimming the ice with his fingers, and he’s breathless in this moment, weightless. His leg trembles, he knows there’ll be a small deduction, but they were prepared for that. That’s why there were additional complicated jumps in the first half, to assure him a victory.

The notes of the piano and the strings of the violin are there to soothe him. A little piece of Osamu there on the ice with him in the form of a soundtrack from one of his favourite movies. It’s all he needs to assure him he’s not alone, that there’s someone there to catch him, even if Osamu can’t skate to save his life.

It’s essentially a sad song, he thinks as the last twenty seconds circle around him, and though he hasn’t smiled once in the routine, he could burst out with laughter now, as his feet turn neatly in the smallest circle possible, finally coming to a stop, arms extended above him, pointing up at the sky, fingers spread.

With _Merry-Go-Round of Life_ at an end, his chest heaves, a hushed stadium turning into a chorus of applause and stuffed animals thrown at his feet (a few roses, despite regulations).

It’s one final touch now that he can, spots Osamu in the crowd once more, and extends a hand, nails painted dark grey like his eyes, and he finally _smiles_ , even flashing his teeth. It’s quite the head-over-heels in love move, but if the crowd goes wild and his boyfriend laughs, then what has he got to lose?

The journey to the Kiss and Cry feels almost insane. His coach is there to greet him, along with Osamu, who’s made his way out of the stands by now, pulling him into a tight hug and telling him how proud he is, and that he definitely wants to see the outfit he’s wearing again in their shared apartment.

It’s nerve-wracking, to say the least, and he’s pretty sure both his coach and Osamu are sweating more than him, even though he’s just finished performing an entire routine. But sweaty palms in his are easy to put up with, far easier than the tension in the air as the judges tie up the scores.

The numbers on the screen flip up for a split-second before stopping. Two hundred and fifteen point eight. 215.08. Sokolov had 214.79 and he was in first place until a second ago and Rin is the last of the performers, which means— 

Which means Suna Rintarō just became an Olympic Gold Medallist.

He goes limp and lets himself be hugged from both sides, crying before he can realise it. He thanks his coach for everything, apologises for when he was being difficult, and then turns to Osamu, who’s smiling at him like he’s looking at sunshine personified.

“I love you,” he blurts out, like he hasn’t said it a hundred times before in the months earlier, but this right here is where his emotions are at his highest, he buries his head into Osamu’s shoulder and just breathes.

There’s some shuffling as Osamu readjusts their position, but he keeps his eyes closed, all of this too much.

“Rin?” Nothing. “Rin, I need ya to open yer eyes.” He sniffs and nods, stray tears wiped away, and looks at where Osamu is half-sitting, half-kneeling with a gold band in his hand.

With a gold band in his hand.

“Are you about to propose in the Kiss and Cry?” Osamu gapes at him, caught off guard. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m about to say yes to the most hopeless romantic I’ve ever known.”

Osamu’s laugh rings louder than his tears of joy and relief. “I haven’ even asked ya yet,” he chuckles.

“Don’t need to. Who in their right mind would say no?” And Kiss and Cry really is quite the appropriate name for the waiting area because there are a lot more tears than he expected to taste as they kiss, Osamu sliding the ring onto his finger, finding it a perfect fit. Rin isn’t even going to ask how he managed to get the right size, but he doesn’t really care.

Because when he thinks that he’s about to stand on the highest podium with an overly large arrangement of flowers in his arms, waving a hand with matching gold to the medal around his neck in front of a camera broadcasting worldwide, there’s no use in obsessing over a detail as small as that.

He pulls away breathless, not really sure how he ended up here from the mess he was back in February, but he _is_ here. His sister is definitely going to curse him out for being in the Olympics before her and he can’t help but smile fondly at the daydream. Nobody expected him to end up on a stage this big this quickly, and that makes it that much sweeter.

“That puts us in the lead again,” comments Osamu, and Rin quirks up an eyebrow.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Atsumu and Kiyoomi are already married.”

A grin. “Yeah, but ‘Tsumu wasn’t the one who proposed at the Olympics after his boyfriend just won gold for Japan.”

It’s so utterly childish he can’t help the exasperated sigh that leaves him, but then what else was he expecting? They’d been competing ever since Atsumu had announced that he was going to declare that he’d had the happier life when they were both on their deathbeds.

He’s about to sit here with Osamu forever but someone’s calling his name and he knows he has to go, has to compose himself and stand on a podium in front of everyone, but with the way Osamu is squeezing his hand, he knows it won’t be for too long.

He’s back in his prime, and though he’s never been one for meeting someone else’s expectations, it doesn’t feel like the weight it used to be. It’s a hell of a lot lighter and his shoulders barely feel it at all, more so when he knows Osamu is somewhere in the crowd, watching.

He’s the _prima_ , centre stage, performing for _one_.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, endings aren't my strong point, and for this fic, I was more than happy to keep going and going and _going_ , but I'm happy with how I did finish it. 
> 
> This was definitely something I pushed myself with, and there were times I was more than willing to give up, especially when I deleted thousands of words at once because something just wasn't right.
> 
> These two are probably quite the rarepair, and I can't imagine getting as many hits as I might have done on a ship that's more well-known and celebrated, but that's not the reason I write. I write because I have a story to tell, and these two are the ones that fit perfectly into this one. 
> 
> Thank you for coming on this journey with me, and I'm going to stop now because the notes are going to end up longer than the fic. I hope it met your expectations, should you have had any.
> 
> Love, Your Author.
> 
> PS. Feel free to drop by [my ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/erissapphic) and leave me a tip!


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